


Forgotten, But Never Gone

by CaptainAssmerica



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1868196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAssmerica/pseuds/CaptainAssmerica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Buchanan Barnes. </p><p>That's who he is.</p><p>Or, at the very least, who he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So, this is my very first published fic! Obviously, I'm very excited- awfully so, really. I do hope you'll like it!
> 
> Enjoy!

"You're gonna need more than that."

 

The dollars wrinkled as his hand suddenly turned into a fist, an angry whir of stirring cogs in his arm faintly heard above the sound of dripping water and violent coughing. "I don't _have_ more." He says with a snarl, efficiently eliminating any chance there was for sympathy or pity- his pale face and gaunt features had let him attain that much in the past, his rough, scratched, mauled being helping others to give charity.

A twitch of annoyance was presented in the corner of the mans lip, eyes narrowing into sharp, almost catlike slits. "Then that's too fuckin' bad. Pay up or fuck off."

The temptation to simply reach out his arm, let the metal fingers crush his throat and watch him writhe for air was all too great. He could do it easily if he wanted- the bastard wouldn't even see it coming. Just a squeeze, and then _snap_. No more Jamie. But Bucky owed him his life. It wouldn't be fair, nor right, to take it (even if it would do the world a whole lot more good if he did). Inhaling sharply through his nose, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to collect his rage and shove it down into the his stomach, though it would arise later in an awful fit. But he would be able to manage it- he just needed to be calm for now. "I'll get the money later." The words came out between his teeth, which ground together in aggravation before his features flattened out into something he hoped was calm, or at the very least something that didn't look like he was possibly going to murder the man.

"That's what you're always sayin'." Jamie's arms crossed over his chest, brows pulling together as his lip continued to curl, somewhere between a scowl and a snarl. "But guess what? It never comes in! And when it does, it's not enough!" Seeming fed up with the conversation, (if it could even be called that) Jamie suddenly turned round, moving across the dimly lit room. Bucky followed, trying not to almost walk on the others heels as he did so. The building seemed rundown, dilapidated and rather old, the cots and couches around even more so, though the people seemed to fair the worst.

Most were elderly folks, wrapped in rags and frayed clothing, adorning stolen scarves and torn mittens that had been thrown out. It was always colder this time around; the snow was just beginning to fall, and though the sight of the white flecks was a joy to most, it meant death for others. Staying outside during a storm wasn't an option- people needed somewhere to sleep. And that's where Jamie made his business. Honestly, he wasn't much better than the rest of them. He was still homeless, jobless, worthless. But he had the cash, the warmth, the shelter that they all needed, and that they all had to pay for. Now, Jamie Hines wasn't a heartless man- he didn't make everyone pay. Not in money, at the very least. He sent them off to deliver things when they could, mostly unknown and unmarked packages, of which when someone asked the contents he would simply snap, 'It's none of your business'.

 

Bucky never felt the need to get himself involved in anything like that (Lord knew that he already had so many things on his back, he didn't need smuggling on a list of growing crimes) and so simply chose to steal. It wasn't hard at all for him, really- he could be like a ghost if he chose to. The only thing stopping him from coming back with wads of cash was the fact that there was something in his head that told him to stop, that it was wrong. He didn't know what it was, though felt rather annoyed by it. The damn thing was getting in the way of him having food, stopping his survival in this world. If hiding out in an abandoned building, eating stale bread and cans of peaches and beans could be called 'surviving'.

 

"I'll try harder then." The calm in his voice was cracking, turning into more of a growl than anything. Bucky pushed the frustration down again, though it shoved back in retaliation. He ignored it. "Please, just-" He followed Jamie as the man began to rummage through one of the rotting wooden dressers someone had pulled in one day, the drawers filled with blankets and clothes, cans of food, though Jamie pulled out a wooden box instead. "...I need this. Please. I...I'm sorry it's not enough. I am. But I just..." Bucky looked down at his hands, one flesh, the other covered by a glove. "...I need it."

And here was where the pity came in. The crackle of desperation in his tone seemed to strike a cord in Jamie, the man setting down the wooden box and sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and shaking his head. It was a long time before he turned round, expression softening some before his shoulders slumped. "Fine. Fine...." He continued to shake his head as he began to rummage through more drawers, pulling out stained hoodies and blankets that had something that was possibly mold on them. Bucky remained silent, simply watching the man, his eyes sliding to the right, then to the left. His fingers deftly began to pull down the sleeve of his sweatshirt, anxious that someone would see a glint of metal. "You're gonna to have to give me something good, James." Jamie waved a finger in the air a bit, though his tone had lightened considerably. "My people went through a lot of trouble to get you this stuff, you know. Don't even know why you want it....you can look in any paper and his face is plastered all over it." The last part was muttered a bit more than said.

Bucky paid little to no attention to the mans words, instead focusing on the pictures that were presented to him. Taking them delicately in his hand, (the flesh hand) he flipped through the pictures carefully, taking in each and every one. "Thank you." His voice was soft again.

Jamie let out a grunt of acknowledgement, nodding his head and waving a hand dismissively to the other. "No need to thank me." He picked out a wad of cash from his pocket, flipping through a few dollars deftly and counting the bills in his head as he spoke. "But the price is gonna be higher the next time, I hope you know." He looked back to Bucky, who gave an affirmative nod that he did know that, or at the very least he had guessed that much. "Seriously though- why do you want those kind of pictures?" He leaned against the dresser, raising a brow. Bucky simply looked through the pictures, not even looking up as his thumb swiped over the face, his eyes narrowing and focusing on the being. After several moments of waiting for an answer that would not come, Jamie let out a huff and moved away, walking over towards a family who's child wouldn't stop crying. They weren't even supposed to be there- he didn't need some kid ruining his operation. 

Remaining glued to his spot for several long minutes, Bucky finally put the pictures into the satchel that remained constantly glued to his shoulder and side, patting it down before moving over towards the couch he normally slept on, and one that he did refer to as his own. He managed to keep it throughout the months, warding others off from taking it as he much preferred to sleep on a creaky, springy couch rather than the floor. The  _something_ in his head always insisted on giving it to someone else, someone who really did need it. Bucky hated that  _something._  Walking past couches and cushions, Bucky knew that most eyes suddenly seemed to drift to him in unison before slipping back to the floor, though he ignored them.

He was used to being stared at. Before he'd found this little safe house, he'd gotten plenty of stares because of his arm (at the time, finding out who he was seemed much more important than finding a hoodie). At HYDRA he'd gotten stares as well. Actually, he could remember being stared at for the majority of his life. Or what life he could remember at all. He was still trying to unlock what had happened, access the memories that HYDRA had destroyed. So far, it was proving impossible. 

Nearing the couch, Bucky sat down in a fluid movement, sitting with his legs tucked underneath him as he took out numerous photos from the bag, his gloved fingers moving over them carefully, eyes flicking to each and every one with a sharp, analytical gaze. Most were a bit blurry, people moving in front of the being that the picture was supposed to be focused on, though there were the odd few that were clear, mainly consisting of when the being of focus was sitting down, or simply standing still. 

It had taken several weeks of persuasion to get Jamie to get some of his men to actually go out and take the pictures, the man constantly asking why he wanted them, and why he should even do that for him. Bucky was the one who owed him, not the other way around. But Jamie had (as he always did) relented, letting a few friends he knew go off to snap a picture or two once in a while. Not without pay, of course- sure, he would be nice enough to do it, but there was always a fee for everything. Not that Bucky minded- he could pay for it, or at least try to. Mainly, he just needed to pictures so he could try to unravel the mystery that was his past, to figure out who this man was. No, not just who he was- Bucky had found that out. He wanted to know who he was to Bucky, whathe was to Bucky, what he meant to Bucky (could people really mean things? Possibly. That was a question for another time). 

Putting the thoughts out of his mind, he gnawed on his lower lip as he picked up one of the clear pictures between his fingers, bringing it up for examination. Bucky had taken up traits that could have been considered nervous habits, though mainly it was because he just needed to do something with at least one part of his body. After all, he'd spent years jumping, running, shooting- to put it simply, HYDRA had never given him any time to sit down, besides the moments that they decided he was remembering too much that it could be considered dangerous (looking back at it, Bucky wondered why he hadn't ever questioned that. Why wouldn't they want him to remember?  _Why?)_

But he couldn't have questioned it back then. The only thing he had ever needed to know about was his missions- the details, the targets, the obstacles. That was it. Bucky's mouth suddenly formed a thin line, a muscle in his cheek twitching.

 

That was behind him. All behind him. He wasn't the Winter Soldier. That had died along with HYDRA; along with SHIELD.

 

Swallowing thickly, as if trying to push down the stream of memories that he didn't want, Bucky focused on the pictures instead, narrowing his eyes and going through several more, paying close attention to the new ones that had been brought out. He would figure this out. It would just take more time was all, though time was something he was awfully limited on. 

Bucky continued to look through the photos before sweeping them all back into his satchel, placing it in his lap before he suddenly reached under the couch, not caring for the dust bunnies and possible rodents that had taken up residence there as his hand groped around the dirty floor before finding what he was looking for. He examined the ponytail and stretched it between his fingers a bit before reaching back and quickly tying up his hair before looking down at his satchel. Bucky had been hoping there would be something in there, something valuable, though he'd only gotten a few papers about building several new homes on some street he didn't know, a pack of gum, and a small pouch of change. The only thing that had actual value to him as the twenty that had been in the change pouch, as it had bought him several nights of a decent dinner. It was useless trying to beg, really. For one, Bucky refused to beg. At all. For another, he knew he would simply be overlooked. That was one good thing about being poor and homeless- everyone simply raised their noses and pretended not to see him. The ignorance of people was a true blessing to him at the moment.

A squeal drew him out of his thoughts then, Bucky's head snapping to the side as his body tensed on instinct, though relaxed when he simply saw a few of the younger ones playing with a makeshift doll, fabrics patched together hastily and buttons that were eyes falling out from the little things head. The children didn't seem to mind otherwise, as they probably knew it was a miracle to have anything at all to play with. Bucky supposed if there was one nice thing about this place, it was the people. Yes, most did grumble and despair over the fact that they lacked money and a home, but they seemed much happier at times than people with such things were.

Bucky had never thought that people smiling would be something that actually kept him going, though plenty of unexpected things had happened to him so far. Jamie himself had been a surprise, really. Bucky had been wandering the streets for weeks after a year or so trying to find former HYDRA agents for information, though he had gotten little to nothing on who he was- who he had been. Jamie had seen him, probably taken pity on him, and offered to take him in. It had been before he'd become a greedy bastard, so he'd been a bit more charitable. Bucky was more than happy to find that he had a place to stay besides alleyways- he was planning on being here for quite some time. Actually, he'd come here, not knowing what else to do, having no where else to go. This place seemed the best, mainly because of one thing:

 

 _Steve Rogers_.

 

That was his name, as Bucky had learned. Not Mission, or Captain America. Just Steve Rogers. A rather plain name, but one that was important for only one reason: he knew him. That should have been reason enough for Bucky to want to go to him, to reveal himself, but it was far too risky. Although SHIELD had been dismantled, he was more than sure that someone was still out for his head, and Bucky didn't feel like dying just yet. Not until he could figure out who hewas. Rubbing at his eye, Bucky took out on of the pictures again, wrinkling his nose slightly as his brows furrowed. This was the only man who could truly tell him who he was. _This_ was the chance to uncover his past. So why was he so damn afraid of even seeing him?

Huffing silently to himself, Bucky laid himself out on the couch, keeping the satchel to his chest. He wasn't stupid enough to keep it on the floor, or anywhere that wasn't within his sight. Though the people here were kindly, they had very slippery fingers, and things tended to be stolen from one another often enough. Or maybe it was just him being paranoid. He was always so high-strung, though he did have the right to be. Everything was so confusing for him- the only time he'd gone out into the world was to kill, and now he was able to experience another limited portion of it. He didn't have money, or a home, which meant he couldn't exactly do things that most people would. He'd managed to watch a television through a window into a diner, a strange sort of awe coming over him. He hadn't a clue as to why; he'd seen plenty of TV's before. This was nothing new. But now that he was away from HYDRA.....he was.... _feeling_ more, and  _seeing_ more, and  _hearing_ more, and.....and remembering more. Very little, but still, it was something. Flashes of a childhood were the most that came to him these days, though they were better than nothing.

Bucky muted out the sounds around as he held the satchel to his chest, breathing out softly through his nose. Today had been a good day. Or at least an alright day. But now was time for rest, not for thinking. He'd learned that rest was the best thing in the world now that he had some kind of cushion for his body. And besides....he was always so tired. He didn't know why- he barely did as much as he used to, but he just felt....exhausted.

 

Consciousness began to drift away from him then, his features softening out as sleep took over him, though he still clutched onto the satchel tightly. He couldn't lose this- he couldn't. It meant everything. It meant finding out who he was. It meant  _knowing_ who he was.  _  
_

 

And that, in itself, was  _everything._

 

* * *

__

If one could keep their heads low in the city, then they could do just about anything. If they did raise their voice, make themselves heard and noticed, let people understand that yes, they did actually exist, then they would be acknowledged. So many people did try to do such, wanting to let others know that they were there among them and not just a blip in the stream of everything. It was always a contest to be known, to be heard, to be noticed. 

 

That made Bucky's job all the more easier.

 

Amongst the crowd of people, too involved in their own lives to even notice others around, it was far too easy to rob them of what they had. In an instant, a woman talking rather obnoxiously on her phone was left without her wallet, (and, evidently, the keys to her car) a man having a rousing conversation with a friend just lost at least sixty dollars, and a teenage girl who didn't have the right mind to put things in her purse just had her phone taken.

Bucky stuffed the items into his jacket pockets, feeling all too smug today as he kept the hood up, hair tied back and eyes darting around for another potential target. He'd get enough money to get him pictures for a whole two months, and get him a stay for at least three more. Bucky was determined, and when he had motivation, he could do nearly anything. It'd probably take several hours to do so, but he didn't mind. It kept him busy, and that was most definitely a good thing. He always needed to do something, else he start to twitch.

He hated when that happened. It usually started with his foot, then his whole leg was shaking, his fingers tapping and eyes darting. He could remain still during missions, but that was simply because he knew if he didn't he would most likely die. But now....now that there was nothing to do besides wander the streets and pickpocket people when it wasn't too cold? Well, it was hard to keep himself distracted. The only thing that did distract him was thinking about certain things he didn't want to think about at all, so that was written off the list completely.

His breath came out in smoky wisps, feeling the cold begin to bite at his skin a bit. The hoodie wouldn't help him through the winter, though it wasn't exactly like he'd find a parka out in the garbage. Maybe he could find a scarf, another jacket to wear over this. That'd be good, or at least better than nothing. His gaze suddenly pinned on a man with his wallet hanging carelessly out from his back pocket. Sneaking through the crowd, Bucky stepped in behind the man, eyeing the wallet almost hungrily before he took a quick look around before quickening his pace, hand extending forwards as his eyes remained on the strangers back, focusing on the spot just between his shoulder blades. He felt the leather of the wallet on his fingertips, pulling it out swiftly and with ease before quickly putting it into his satchel within the same movement. The man didn't even notice, leaving Bucky with a small smirk before he slunk away, moving towards the edge of the crowd again. 

He did see a few more who were participating in the art of stealing, actually. A boy just across the street had just stolen a woman's phone while she hadn't been looking, a girl snatching out several dollars from someone's bag. He didn't really care what they did- he was no better than them, really. As long as they didn't get in his way, then it was all quite fine with Bucky, really.

Deciding that there wasn't much to see here, Bucky moved on out of the crowd, his pace brisk to find another where his actions wouldn't be seen. He wasn't a child, nor was he even relatively small- he couldn't just swipe someone out in the open and expect them not to notice it. The man crossed the street then, targeting a large group that had suddenly seemed to subconsciously bundle together. It was so easy when people did that- another thing to love about them, besides their ignorance.

Sneaking into the bundle, the bodies around him provided a bit of warmth, though Bucky was already beginning to leave a light shiver going through his body. At least the flesh parts of his body. His metal arm never really seemed to shiver, though it wasn't like it would get cold, or hot. Sure, he could feel the texture of things, but.....well, the feeling was similar to that of when a limb felt numb. He could touch things, and know he was touching them, the sensation simply felt.....muted, in a way. If that made sense at all. It probably didn't. 

Bucky muted out the chatter around, instead focusing on their purses and pockets. Was there anything he could get at? His eyes flickered around to each of them, checking them off a mental list.

 

_No, no, no, no, no-_

 

He grinned.

 

_Yes._

 

Moving forwards quickly, Bucky was just at the mans side, if not a little bit behind him. A few dollars hanging out from his front pocket.....a bit tricky, but Bucky was more than sure he could manage it. Just get them distracted, and it would be perfectly alright. But how to distract. A coffee in hand- bump into him, make him trip up a little. Coffee spills, offer help, slip hand in and out, and then done. Hopefully this would be more of a daft sort of man rather than an observant one- oh, he hated the paranoid ones. Always keeping a watch out not only for themselves, but for others as well. He was more than grateful that there were never too many in the groups he chose, though Bucky had had plenty of close calls when they suddenly began to cry 'thief', leaving him to sprint out of there as fast as he could before someone could think to stop him. In those times he usually came back empty handed, either that or with just a few bucks and maybe a phone or two.

Jamie did like it when he brought back wallets and car keys; he had men find the cars, and either sold the parts, sold them to others, or simply kept them for himself. He didn't know why the bastard liked to keep the wallets, though didn't ask. There was no use in it anyways- Jamie'd probably just wave him off for being annoying, either that or flip him off.

Tongue flicking out over his chapped lips, Bucky eyed the coffee a bit longer before he made his move, bumping into the man a bit. It was a relatively soft nudge with his shoulder, but it was enough to get the coffee to drop. The hot liquid spilled on the cold, icy ground, Bucky's face melting into something a bit more apologetic than the stoney expression he had been wearing prior. The man -dark skinned, he noticed now, taking in several details- swore under his breath, though Bucky wasn't listening to what he did say as he began to make erratic movements. "Oh god, I'm so sorry- look, let me help-" The ploy was to act innocent as he could, like he hadn't meant to. Bucky himself had never been the best actor, but in the past two years, he'd managed to teach himself quite a bit on it. He had to act if he wanted to survive, and now, he could be anything- sickly, sad, happy, innocent, whatever else. When he was actually trying, at the very least, and no one was aggravating him too much.

"It's fine, man, " The man waved a hand, bending down to pick up the fallen coffee to throw it in the trash. "You don't have to apolo-" 

Bucky didn't give him time to finish, brushing at his side. "Here, let me." His hand shot out, snatching out the dollars quickly and crumpling them in his fist. It didn't matter if they weren't in perfect condition- money was money, no matter what state. Picking it up, Bucky offered the man a quick smile that could barely be called genuine, his face only barely visible from the hood. He didn't need anyone reporting him, after all. 

What had been in the mans pocket? He'd seen a twenty flash, and....maybe a fifty? Or just a five- either which would be fine enough. He'd go back to the safe house for a bit, get warm, and go out again. If someone wasn't there maybe he'd be able to snatch up their scarf, or possibly a better pair of boots, though that  _something_ was nagging at him rather insistently that he shouldn't. People needed those things, or else they get sick and die. But Bucky was sure they could find something else- they would be fine. Maybe. Probably not. But whatever- he had plenty of blood on his hands so what would another life matter, and he wouldn't be killing them  _directly._ Just....sort of. Turning round, Bucky began to make his way to the trash. Or at least  _was_ going to make his way to the trash before a hand suddenly gripped his wrist rather tightly. 

His first immediate thought of panic was that the man had figured out that he'd just lost maybe seventy dollars -or twenty five- from his pocket. But he couldn't panic- he could either talk his way out of this, or try to run. The latter seemed currently impossible, what with how hard he was gripping his wrist. He was rather happy it was his flesh arm, else he feel the metal instead of the bones he was possibly about to crush. Turning his head, Bucky opened his mouth, preparing a small speech in his head to get himself out of this. He was pretty good with words, and currently didn't feel up for a fight, so-

Bucky froze. 

His stomach dropped. 

 

He couldn't  _breathe._

 

Blue eyes met his own, ones that were all too familiar. The rest of the features suddenly came crashing towards him, a tidal wave of feelings and prior thoughts simply crashing him, almost making him move as though it was a physical blow. It felt like that much, really. His heart was pounding and his head heart and he couldn't get a grip on anything right now. Everything slowed for a single second, allowing in so many things that were just making it so damn hard to think or move or act or- or anything, really. Conversations that he couldn't recall suddenly came flooding forwards into his mind, though he couldn't grasp at any of the words. They were going far too fast for him, a jumble of laughter and snorts, scoffs and snaps and slurs, soft and loud and cries and shouts. Cold nights of shivering and chattering teeth came to him, a beat up boy and throwing punches at others who tried to hurt him. Wind whipping hair and moments of quiet and moments of cheering and laughter and happiness that were flying by so fast and he wanted to just reach for them and he wanted them and he _wanted them._ It was almost just like a taste of what he could remember- what he  _would_ remember. And he was craving so much more,  _so much more,_ but it was just  _too damn fast._ Why couldn't he get a grip on it all? A migraine was settling deep in his skull as it all flooded in before pouring out, the things he thought he knew suddenly becoming vague and distant as other memories came to take their place before falling out the other ear as well. But  _he wanted to remember and he wanted to know._ He just....he  _needed_ to know.  

And then there was a sound that was almost like a chanting in his mind, over and over, turning into a mantra, and then almost a prayer. 

 

_Friendfriendfriendprotectprotectfriendfamilybrotherfriend_

 

He needed to leave.

 

 _SteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteve_ _**Steve-** _

 

He needed to _run._

 

So, he did. 

 

 

And then Steve followed. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The advance would have seemed terrifying to anyone, really, had it not been for his expression. The determination to catch up to Bucky was clear in his motions, in his body, though his features honestly represented more of something near a lost puppy rather than a man chasing down a terrorist, a murderer, a monster-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovely readers!
> 
> Alright, right now I'm going to try and make a schedule for the updates (of course, I might not be able to manage it due to short attention span, but at least I made the effort, right?). 
> 
> Chapter updates be weekly at the max, and if I can manage it, there will be updates within the next 2-3 days after the most recent chapter.
> 
> Hopefully I'll be able to keep that up, though I'm more than sure that I'll manage it :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and now, back to the story.

_Run._

 

That was the only thing he could register. 

 

**_Run._ **

 

The blur of a man barreled down the streets, not even slipping on the ice as he sprinted across the pavement. He cared not for the people in his way, not slowing in the slightest as he pushed them aside, a few falling to the ground and spitting out curses at the man, though it was useless. Bucky couldn't hear anything above the pounding of his heart, the wind rushing past his ears and whispering the faint memories that had come to his mind, though they were far away by now, vanished from his mind as though they hadn't been there in the first place. Though he wished to scramble for them hang onto the little pieces that were still drifting away and try to uncover what the vague images were, he knew it was best to simply put his focus in running, and trying not to be caught.

His pursuer was fast, his mutated genetics allowing him to keep going without losing a single breathe, though he was clumsy, trying not to knock into one and letting out a string of apologies amongst the calls for him to stop, to wait. But Bucky didn't listen- he was far too busy trying to figure out a way to escape. 

Turning the corner, he started down another street, barely knowing where he was going, though he could find the location later. Skittering down another corner, Bucky felt his hood beginning to slip, almost letting his face and hair be uncovered before he swiftly brought out a hand, pulling it down further and holding it as he ran. Yes, he was panicking, but he still refused to let anyone see his face. He didn't need anyone else recognizing him in any way. Like a stray dog he ran into the street, avoiding the passing cars which came to a screeching halt, the drivers sticking their heads out and waving their fists at the second man who came across, though this time Steve didn't apologize for jamming up the street. It seemed as though he'd gotten it into his thick skull that chasing after Bucky was more important than trying to be polite. Chilled air making his lungs burn, Bucky looked back once, eyes wide and almost wild as he analyzed the man behind him. 

Steve's mouth was open as he started off another shout for him to slow down, arms pumping at his sides and strong legs carrying him further, advancing towards Bucky. Blond hair whipping past the cold wind, white flakes getting caught in the strands as he ran, Bucky suddenly became aware that his clothes were...old. Not in the way his own clothes were old- not in a used, abused, and torn way. But just...old fashioned. A plaid shirt tucked in snugly at his belt, his pants a bit higher than they normally would be for this era. The _something_ in his head snorted.  _Dressing like a grandpa,_ It rattled off the thought in his head, amusement trying to force past the fear and panic. Of course, it didn't. 

The advance would have seemed terrifying to anyone, really, had it not been for his expression. The determination to catch up to Bucky was clear in his motions, in his body, though his features honestly represented more of something near a lost puppy rather than a man chasing down a terrorist, a murderer, a monster, 

_A friend._

 

Teeth gnashing together in confusion from the sudden thought that was rattling around in his skull, Bucky shook his head furiously as he pushed aside another person who'd gotten in his way, now suddenly wishing that these pedestrians had the common sense to move out of the way when they say someone practically sprinting in their direction. Bucky knew for a fact that they could easily see him; honestly, he looked like a small tank rather than a man at the moment, and a very fast one at that. Much faster than Steve anyways, or at least getting faster. The other was too bulky, meant to be able to take down the enemy, not run away from it. Bucky was a bit leaner, though by no means smaller. He'd simply trained his body to be able to endure most anything. Or rather, HYDRA had trained it to endure anything. The thoughts suddenly brought a flare of anger to his chest, and Bucky simply went faster, breathing heavily through his nostrils and letting the air out through his mouth, focusing on the next street ahead instead of anything else. All he had to do was find an escape route. That was it. That was easy. Simple.

He skidded down the next corner, slipping on the ice, though the man quickly caught himself, continuing his way forwards before he darted to the side, now choosing to zigzag in and out of crowds to lose the soldier behind him. He would get caught amongst the people, Bucky was sure, trying not to harm them. Perhaps he shouldn't have been hurting them either, but that thought was irrelevant. He just had to escape. He  _had_ to.  _  
_

An opening to an alleyway presented itself, and Bucky took the opportunity that it brought gladly. Turning sharply, the next few movements were a blur, his mind pinpointing ways to escape from this dead-end. He wasn't panicked about it, though he should have been. A dead-end was what he needed, actually. Swiftly, he moved up onto the large trash bin, launching his body upwards onto the fire escape above. His muscles ached in the most wondrous way, missing the constant movement, the thrill of the chase that all of this brought. Adrenaline was something he had craved for so very long, especially after he had stopped searching for the Hydra agents and instead secluded himself to the city.

He rocketed up the stairs, each step surprisingly silent. Meeting the top of the metal stairs, Bucky gripped the bottom of the window on the side of the building, pulling himself up and using the frame for footing as he brought himself onto the top of the building. Moving away from the edge, Bucky quickly began to catch his breath, staring down at the floor as his limbs trembled, heart still beating too fast in his chest, acting much like a large bird in a far too small cage. He didn't move when he heard the sound of someone's shoe stepping into a pile of dirtied pile of slush, the heaving breaths bouncing off the walls and almost seeming to echo in Bucky's ear.

Steve stayed there for a very long time, Bucky waiting on the rooftop to hear his breathing slowly come back down to a normal pace. He didn't seem to move until another pair of pounding footsteps entered the alley, Bucky's head turning swiftly as he listened carefully, not wanting to look over the edge to see who it was, else someone below catch a glimpse of him and start the chase all over again. The other -probably the man who had been with Steve, the one he'd stolen from- seemed to take a far longer time to catch his breath, his lungs still working hard for the chilled air as he spoke. "Jesus- why did you- why do you have to run so damn fast-?"

"It was him." Steve's voice was quiet. Soft, disbelieving, and quiet. Bucky felt his jaw clench at the tone, though he hadn't a clue as to why.

"It was-" The man gulped down air again. "It was _who?"_

Steve seemed to move then, possibly turning back towards the other. " _Bucky._ It was- it was him. It was Bucky. I swear- Sam, it was him." The bird in Bucky's chest settled slightly now, though perhaps that was simply because it couldn't move. The cage that was his chest seemed to be constricting. 

A pause. Silence lingered in the alleyway for a rather long time, Bucky wondering for a moment if the two below had simply disappeared somehow. It barely seemed as though they were breathing, or maybe they were just doing it so shallowly that Bucky couldn't hear them. A small shuffle- lighter than Steve's footsteps. Sam then. "....you sure?"

 _"Sure?"_ Steve was scoffing. "Sam- that was  _him._ I know it. I'm positive it was him." The shuffling seemed almost uncomfortable from Sam's side. "...what? What is it?"

It took a long time for him to respond. "It's just....I don't know. The guy....sort of looked like him, I guess...."

Bucky felt his metal arm give a small twitch of agitation at Steve's silent. The air was growing tense, the intensity of it nearly making Bucky want to leave. "Sam-" Several footsteps interrupted Steve then, Sam letting out a heavy sigh. 

"Look- you've been searching him for him for- what? Two years now? You're bound to see a few things. I know you want him back bad, but...." He let the sentence die then, the ending unknown. But Bucky didn't think he could hear an end to it, really. A sudden pounding in his head was drowning out the rest of the conversation, an agitated argument from Steve, something about how he couldn't believe Sam thought he imagined it, Sam giving his own defense- all of it was a blur. He couldn't hear, could barely even see. Dark blotches began to take residence within his vision, blotting out the rest of the rooftop and seeming to also consume his thoughts beside the single fact that Steve had  _looked_ for him. He'd  _looked._ Searched, actually. For two years, the expanse of time of which Bucky had taken to track down what remained of Hydra, to demand answers, when the one who could have provided it all actually trying to find  _him._ He knew it wasn't something to get awfully worked up about, but- but he couldn't- he _couldn't._

 

* * *

 

Bucky didn't know how he managed to get himself off the rooftop, nor how he'd managed to get himself back on the route to the safe house. He didn't question how either- Bucky was simply glad that he had escaped. Keeping his head down, the man simply stared down at his boot-clad feet, breathing it and out calmly despite the fact that he was much less than calm at the moment. It all just felt....wrong. And he didn't even know why. The _something_ in his head was nearly painful now, clawing at him to go back to Steve, howling for him to just  _go back._ But Bucky couldn't- he didn't  _want_ to. He wasn't ready to face that- he wasn't ready for all of those memories to hit him like that again.

Now  _that_ had been agony, like someone simply smashed upon his head, stuffing down memories into his skull till it was near to the point of exploding. He just....there were too many things. A whole life to remember, and so little space to put it in. If he was going to remember, he decided, he needed to do so slowly. No matter how much he wanted his life back, Bucky now knew he couldn't handle it all at once. It was an infuriating sort of thing, but one he would have to deal with. His metal hand began to bunch into a loose fist before relaxing, repeating the process of clenching and unclenching as he made his way down the street, not bothering to try and steal anyone's money- he had enough. Enough for now, at least. He didn't think he wanted the pictures anymore- at least not for a while. 

Hands shoving into the pockets of his hoodie, Bucky shut his eyes for a moment, letting out a breath and taking in another, opening his eyes to watch it come out in an almost transparent wisp. His chest was clenching again, and he swallowed back against a sudden lump in his throat. What the hell was happening to him? It didn't make sense- none of this did. He wanted to remember so badly, but when the one thing (the  _one thing)_ that could help him presented itself, he just.....couldn't face it. 

The man walked on for a bit more before ducking away into an alley, stopping once he was hidden by the shadows. His breathing picked up considerably there, shoulders trembling slightly before his nostrils suddenly flared, and the hollow feeling that was beginning to consume him suddenly became a flash of anger. Bucky lashed out quickly, his body flinging itself to the side as his metal hand suddenly collided with the wall beside him, the only sound beside his rough breathing being that of the crunch of the bricks. A small crater formed where his knuckles had been, Bucky pulling back and trying to collect himself, rid himself of the pain that had settled itself right into the base of his skull, pain pulsing in his veins and circulating throughout his body. Looking down at his hand, hissing silently at seeing that the glove had shredded a small bit due to the force of the punch. Slipping it off, Bucky took a minute to look over the metal for a moment, flexing his fingers carefully, slowly. 

It took him several more moments to slip it back on, simply shoving it into his pocket. He'd find another glove later- right now, he just needed to sit down, distract himself with listening to dull conversations and whooping coughs. Bucky could just.....he could just forget that this happened. He was good at that, wasn't he? Forgetting things. 

His feet seemed to know the route back to the safe house, the way ingrained in his brain. He had to know how to get back there, else he get lost during winter and possibly freeze to death. It didn't sound like a pleasant end. Bucky was more than happy to find that the time passed quickly from then on, his episode forgotten, the chase behind him, and everything else pushed back into a dark corner of his mind. Eyes darting left and right, Bucky quickly opened up the door to the abandoned building, wincing slightly at the way it groaned when he closed it. Pulling back his hood, the mans pace relaxed into a much easier walk rather than the almost brisk jog he had taken up outside, letting out a quiet sigh.

Most residents were currently huddling up against several fires that someone had started up, hands outstretched towards the heat as they pulled blankets around themselves, the scratchiness and griminess probably forgotten by them. Having a dirty blanket was better than contracting hypothermia, he supposed. Moving over to the rotten dresser, Bucky promptly deposited his pay, putting it in a little pile and putting a penny separate from the little group of stolen items and wrinkled dollars- a signature of sorts, to show that it was his work, not anyone else's. But people knew best not to take credit for anything that wasn't theirs- they were desperate, but at least they had some form of morals. 

Without too much hesitation, Bucky brought himself over to one of the less crowded fires, the flames eating up the charcoaled papers, embers flying down and landing at peoples feet. Small stools and upturned bins were sitting places, a few spots still open, though instead Bucky simply planted himself on the floor, outstretching his hand to catch the warmth. He didn't need to do the same for his other hand- it never felt warmth, nor cold. He kept it tucked into the pocket of his hoodie instead, not wanting anyone to possibly see the metal underneath the torn material. A few glanced his way, though apparently deemed him as uninteresting before their eyes wandered over back towards the fire. Silence ensued from then on, a few sniffles going around, coughs muffled into the crook of elbows, and muttered conversations that were abruptly ended as a few edible items were passed around. 

Today, dinner seemed to consist of half of a loaf of stale bread, and a half eaten burger. It wasn't a nice dinner, no, but nobody around here had anything that was relatively  _nice._ The food at Hydra hadn't been good, per say, but at the very least it had been food. Sighing, Bucky looked over the burger (which had probably been picked out from a garbage can) before passing it to someone near him, hearing some kind of thanks as he began to nibble on the bread. He wasn't hungry, as strange as it may seem. Most of the time there was a gnawing sort of ache in his stomach, though tonight.....there wasn't. Maybe it had something to do with Steve. Maybe his body was simply deciding that now was the best time to give up. Maybe both. He didn't know.

"-it's going to be a cold one, I can assure you on that." His ears suddenly decided to tune in on what the older woman next to him was saying, knowing that he shouldn't pursue the thoughts any further than he already had. Bucky turned his head a bit, watching as she chewed tipped her head back a bit to swallow down the contents of the can in her hands -cold tomato soup, it seemed. "I remember last year....awful, just awful it was." She shook her head, chin dipping down into the large scarf around her neck, knitted purples and pinks that had faded with time, the string unraveling at the end. Her companion next to her nodded his head, humming in agreement as he put out one of the embers that had landed near his shoe. Suddenly, she turned her head, blinking big brown eyes at Bucky, who hid his own surprise at the sudden acknowledgement to his existence. "Were you here for the storm last year? Lost my friend Eddie to it- he was a nice man, very nice." She nodded her head before looking to the man expectantly, silent as she waited. 

Bucky shuffled uncomfortably on his spot, eyes darting from the corner of the room, then back to the woman. "I....wasn't, no." He said softly, shaking his head a small bit. 

"Well then- where were you?" She questioned next, and a flicker of annoyance lighted in Bucky's chest at her nosiness.

"I was..." Last winter he'd been in Louisiana, nearly drowning a HYDRA agent in his pursuit for his past. He hadn't done too much to him in his torture- maybe cut off a few fingers, threatened to cut out his tongue, plunged his head underwater, but the rest of it had simply been hollow threats and fake attempts to actually hurt him. The agent had nearly soiled himself several times, the reputation of the Winter Soldier still one that was present in his mind. After only gaining a vast amount of garbled pleads for him to be released, Bucky had simply dumped the man in the street before moving onto his next target. But he couldn't exactly say any of those things, now could he? "....in Orleans. Visiting a.....friend." 

The woman's eyes lit up a small bit. "Oh- I've never been down there." She chirped, looking back to her companion. "Have you ever been there, Simon?" The man let out a grunt before shaking his head, the woman looking back to Bucky then. "Sorry about him- he doesn't talk too much, you know. Not too much." She shook her head before suddenly bouncing back onto the topic of Bucky's own endeavors. "So- when exactly did you get here to the Big Apple? I've been here for a couple of years, I have. I came to look for a better life and- well, I'm sure you can guess the rest." She chuckled a bit, though honestly Bucky didn't see it as a humorous sort of thing.

"My....another friend of mine lives down here. I've," He paused in his sentence to let his tongue dart out over his lips. "I've been meaning to see him for a long time." _Too long. Far too long. Decades long._

The woman smiled brightly. "That's lovely. Have you met up with him?" She cocked her head to the side, resembling more of a curious bird than a human being, her white puff of hair looking like feathers.

 

_Yes. I have._

Bucky shook his head. "No."

 

* * *

 

_Lost._

 

_He's lost._

 

_The streets are unknown, but achingly familiar, each building holding a story that he can't recall, though he was never able to recall much in the first place. Street lamps flicker as he passed by them, the orange light falling over him as he went underneath before darkness consumed him once more, his vision beginning to swim as he stumbled forwards. His leg was cramping up again, the muscle in his shin coiling and tensing painfully. But he kept moving. Just kept moving forwards. There was nothing left to do- nothing left. Nothing left at all._

_His hand reached out towards the wall next to him, limb trembling before he found a bit of stability, leaning his body against the bricks. Sunken eyes moved towards the ground, a rasp of a breath coming out of his mouth, cracked, scabbed lips searching for air that had always been free to him, but now was simply coming in short dosages. His throat felt as though it was constricting, though by the way his heart was beating, he could breath just fine._

_The weight of his metal arm had never bothered him before, though back then it wasn't as though his body was now actively trying to die. The synthetic muscle fibers that made up the arm, the plating, the metal and titanium that had been infused within his collarbone and ribs and spine now seemed to be weighing him down, making his efforts to walk far more sluggish than he would have liked._

_Though, either way, his movements would have been delayed even if it wasn't there. He hadn't slept in eight days, too busy focusing on the next checkpoint, the next target, trying to keep himself alive long enough so he could watch each and every Hydra agent burn. He knew that was impossible, yes, mostly because there were plenty that had fled and probably would never be found, but at the very least he could have the dream to watch their flesh rip away. He couldn't give them a quick death- not like he'd given others. Former targets, ones that had been innocent; he'd given them gentle deaths. Quiet deaths. Peaceful deaths. But they.....they would pay. They would **burn.**_

_A hiss escaped through his teeth as his knees suddenly gave out, leaving him to crumple to the ground. Greasy, dark strands of hair fell forwards into his face, a harsh pant making his throat ache as he put his palms flat on the pavement, keeping himself from completely laying down on the ground, though the idea was one that he did very much enjoy. If he could just lay down, rest.....just for a moment....if only for a moment...._

_Shakily, he picked himself up, back onto his feet, blinking quickly before he started moving again. No- it he rested now, he would die. It wasn't a question of 'if'. It was a fact that he would. Whether by the cold, or someone recognizing him, or his own body deciding to shut down, it didn't matter. He refused to let it end in such a way. He wouldn't go out to pathetically. But, then again, he was far beyond just 'pathetic' at this point. Was there a word less than pathetic? Probably, but his mind was in such a jumble that he couldn't currently think of it. Instead, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other. That was all he had to do; it was easy. Just keep walking, one step at a time, and he would get there. He would be there._

 

_....Where was 'there'?_

 

 

_"Hey- hey, you. You okay?"_

_A hand gripped his shoulder. If he had been well, his immediate reaction would have been to grab the mans wrist, break the bone and flip him over onto the ground. But now, all he can do is look to the side, blinking lethargically at the blurry outline of a face, a body. Who was that? Was it someone he knew? Did he even know anyone?_

_The hand continued to pat on his shoulder, gripping it a little tighter. "Yo....buddy, you alright? You're.....shit, are you bleeding....?"_

_Was he? Eyes drifting downwards, a small noise that could have been a hum or a whimper left his lips at the sight of a red splotch slowly staining his thigh. Reopened stitches- he'd probably ripped them open running off the bus before the driver could try to stop him after he'd realized he had no money._

_"Shit- I'll- fuck, what happened to you?" He felt eyes boring into his temple, but all he could manage out was a wheeze. "Okay- okay, I'll ask later." An arm wrapped over his shoulders, supporting his weight and dragging him off. He doesn't have the energy to protest at the moment, following along in a limp, pliant way. He was used to letting people drag him off, letting people command him- he always let them. He always obeyed. "I'm Jamie," Was he trying to be friendly by giving that piece of information? "What's your name?" The man asked after a moment, his features becoming a bit clearer then._

_Name?_

 

_He'd....he'd asked for his name?_

 

_His superiors (former superiors) had told him he didn't have a name. He was the Soldier. He was nothing. He was a weapon, something to point at blindly towards the enemy. Not a name. Names were for children. He didn't have a name. Or at least didn't remember it. There were times when he could remember things clearly- everything was sharp and focused. He knew his name, who he was, where he was going. And then there were times when he didn't know. When he didn't know anything. Not his name, not his mission, (he'd failed his mission; failed failed failedfailedfailedfailed) nothing. He hated those times. But he couldn't remember why he hated them._

_"I-" His voice was hoarse, raspy, withering. The man supporting him winced at the sound of it. "I-It's...." There were times when they had asked the name question. 'What's your name', 'who are you', 'where are you from'. It was when he started to remember things did they ask him those questions- they started to ask when_ he  _started to ask. He wasn't supposed to ask about anything. Sometimes he wouldn't say anything, and other times, it would come to him as an automatic response:_

 

_Sargent James Barnes._

_Usually, those responses were cut off with a volt of electricity running through him, burrowing deep into his bones, right down to the marrow until he got the answer right._

 

_"...J....James." He answered finally, his tongue feeling heavy in the same way his body did. "James."  He said firmly, it being the first thing in his mind. Another was distant, drifting around his in skull and out of his reach. It was a fond, sentimental thing. He just....he couldn't remember it. He wondered why._

 

_He forget what he had wondered in the next three minutes._

* * *

 

 

Memories always came to him while he was asleep. They weren't usually very useful ones- just things that had happened in the recent past. When they were useful, they always slipped his mind, his consciousness trying desperately to grapple onto the thoughts that always evaded him. The  _something_ in his head always sagged when he couldn't remember, continuing to howl in its own mourning for the loss of the life he had had. 

Most of the time, he wished it would just shut up. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve had been a rather reoccurring topic in Bucky's mind, though he refused to let himself indulge in the simple notion of the man. At all. He didn't care if they would bring back memories, he wanted nothing to do with him. Or at least that's what he had been telling himself for the past two weeks. He could figure this out without him. He could. Bucky was determined to reveal everything on his own. Then maybe, maybe, he would go back to Steve. No- no. Go to Steve. Not back to.

Smoke drifted up into the night air, falling out of Bucky's mouth as his fingers tapped at the cigarette, ashes falling down onto at the ground at his feet. Several others joined him in the smoke, a group huddled around as they shared the moment in silence, the silence filled with cautious footsteps from outside the alley, a few pedestrians obviously frightened of the streets at night. They did have the right to be, of course. There were plenty of nasty things out here.

Sighing, Bucky brought the cigarette to his lips again, sucking in before exhaling, watching the billow drift upwards before simply disappearing. He remembered a time when it was easier to see the stars. It was a simple memory, but one of the few that he relished. The stars would crackle above their heads (someone else was there in that memory, someone else was always there in those kind of memories) and Bucky would hum and listen as his companion (was the person just a companion?) raised a bony finger to the sky, pointing out constellations, connecting the celestial bodies together to form a picture. He remembered making the stars into his own creations, usually for amusement. His companion would laugh, the frail body rattling with the sound, and Bucky would smile. 

Where was that companion now? Probably dead. His metal hand clenched into a fist at the thought. He took another puff, his eyes now drifting down to the ground. He'd only just gotten into the habit of smoking (or perhaps he'd smoked before, in the past, and it was simply a habit resurfacing) though he really couldn't recall as to why he had decided to. He'd simply seen the group of smokers packed together tightly, and decided to join them. Perhaps it was simply the group that he enjoyed. They didn't talk, weren't nosy, minded their own business, but still provided a form of companionship that was scarce to him these days.

Blowing out the smoke slowly, Bucky let his hand drop away from his mouth, staring at the wall ahead as he breathed in the ashy air, eyes sullen. It had been two weeks since his encounter with Steve. He'd been far more careful with where he pick pocketed since then, and thankfully, he hadn't seen the man again. The awful organ in his chest ached at the fact that he was avoiding Steve, though, (as he did with everything else) Bucky forced the emotion down, numbing his senses and simply sweeping away the feeling until it was almost nonexistent. In missions, he couldn't have 'feelings' about anything, more or less opinions, and had been trained to forget about them all together. He supposed it was a good skill to have, though it made him feel much less human than he would have liked.

His cigarette fell to the ground as he let it slip from his fingers, putting it out with his foot before shoving his hands into his pockets, making his way out from the alley and down the road, putting his hood up then, though his hair could have easily veiled his face. The passerby's seemed to grow more nervous than they had been initially, Bucky watching them skitter away. It was understandable, really; if he were to encounter someone who even looked relatively like him at this time at night, he would have been quite cautious too.

Kicking away a crunched soda can, Bucky let his eyes follow it as it rolled away, sweeping his gaze back to the front as he hunched over a bit. He'd been focusing on figuring out his past since the chase with Steve, though what he could uncover was useless. It was simple interrogations that left him with a cold sweat and tears brimming in his eyes, and still flashes of images from when he was a child. So far, he only currently remembered that in his Junior year of high school, he'd managed to pass with a B+, and that he had a knack for beating quite a few kids up. He didn't know why. He just remembered that he had. Bucky wondered often if he had been a violent person before all of this, though he didn't think so. Or at least hoped he hadn't been violent.

Despite everything, Bucky was now rather adverse towards the thought of violence. He didn't get into any fights anymore, simply let insults and stinging words with a passive expression, though the wolf that had taken up residence within his chest always ran through his veins, howling when a scuffle presented itself, when the chance came that it could sink its teeth into another victim, to possibly take another life. But he wouldn't kill- not anymore. He refused. There was already so much blood on his hands, and he thought he would soon begin to drown in it if he did spill just an drop more.

It would be best to get back to the safe house; it was getting late, and god knew what kind of people came out beyond this time. Though Bucky was nowhere near 'approachable', he didn't believe for a second that he would simply be left alone, that a rowdy crowd of drunks or thieves, or whoever else, wouldn't decide to try their luck with him. At the moment, Bucky didn't feel like being pestered in that sort of way, though if he was he could take care of it quite easily. Yes, he didn't  _want_ to be violent, but that didn't mean he wouldn't put whoever chose to mug him back in their place. Besides, if they were stupid enough to try and rob someone who was clearly homeless, then they deserved it.  

A cog began to whir in his arm, and Bucky couldn't help but clutch the metal appendage, wincing slightly. He hadn't been able to make repairs to it, though it would be rather hard to. He didn't have any equipment, no tools, and no parts to speak of. It was better than he expected, at the very least- Bucky was rather glad that HYDRA had made it to endure any kind of weather, and was especially thankful that the metal didn't rust after so many times caught in the rain, or going underwater. Perhaps that was one thing he could give them thanks for, though he wouldn't exactly have to give them said thanks if they hadn't cut off his arm in the first place. His thoughts became slightly bitter from there, Bucky rubbing his arm up and down to somehow relieve himself of the irritation that was held within it. It didn't work, obviously, but at the very least he still had the normal reaction to do so. There were too many things like that that he had lost- normal responses. _Human_ responses. His time being an assassin had eliminated nearly all of those, leaving him to remain stoney faced and stoic while others would be happy, would be sad, would be surprised. 

He wondered if he had always been so serious. Hopefully not; Bucky didn't want his returning memories to be dull (because they _would_ return). Though perhaps he shouldn't be all too picky about that, all things considered. 

Running a hand through his hair, feeling the itching need to tie it back up due to its horrid greasiness, Bucky turned round the corner, not minding the cold all too much. Amusement filled his expression for a second at a sudden thought, a small smile that was more than a simple twitch gracing his lips. Maybe he truly  _was_ the  _Winter_ Soldier. It wasn't a very good pun, though if Steve were here he would probably-

Bucky halted in his walk almost immediately, his entire thought process halting with him. No.  _No._  The man _(the memory)_ wouldn't invade his thoughts again. Not again. 

Steve had been a rather reoccurring topic in Bucky's mind, though he refused to let himself indulge in the simple notion of the man. At all. He didn't care if they would bring back memories, he wanted nothing to do with him. Or at least that's what he had been telling himself for the past two weeks. He could figure this out without him. He _could._ Bucky was determined to reveal everything on his own. Then maybe,  _maybe,_ he would go back to Steve. No-  _no._ Go  _to_ Steve. Not back to. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Bucky hunched over a bit, letting out a heavy sigh. He rubbed at his stomach absently, wincing slightly as a twinge of pain went through his body from the action. Food was getting cut back, as there was no one who wanted to go out and scrounge for it in the cold, and now he was beginning to feel the true pain of starvation. But he would find something, he would survive. He always did. Besides, Bucky refused to die before he had figured out his past. When that happened, he would happily embrace death if it did come. Of course, that seemed to be growing nearer and nearer with each passing day, especially now. Jamie had threatened to kick him out because he wasn't bringing in enough, though that was due to the fact that he wasn't barely even going out to pickpocket, or even going out in general. At least not during the day. At night, he could wander the streets all he liked; he was quite confident that Steve wouldn't suddenly be there. From what little memory served, he didn't seem the type to take a brooding walk in the dark.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye made him pause just for a second, his gaze directing over towards the shadows that he had seen the motion, though he quickly carried on. It was most likely nothing, (he'd always been horribly paranoid) but even if it was something, he could handle it. He was sure he could.

The 'nothing' turned out to actually be a something, or rather, a someone. Well, _someones._ Bucky didn't have to look back to know he was being followed, his ears picking up the not-so-light footfalls of at least four people behind him. He didn't pick up any speed in his walk, letting it remain casual, if not slightly brisk, though it had been that way before as well. Putting his hand back, Bucky lifted up his hood and let it cover up most of his face, both because the wind was currently biting at his cheeks, and for the fact that if there was going to be a fight, he didn't want himself to really be seen. Again, he could take no chances in anyone recognizing him, not even a few punks.

He had been expecting some sort of taunting to get him a bit riled up, or at the very least something that would indicate that they were just a bunch of idiots, though Bucky could never say he wasn't surprised when he passed a flickering streetlight and was suddenly shoved back into an alley, a hand gripping the front of his hoodie and slamming his back against the wall. Despite the slight pain in his shoulder that the rough handling caused (it had nearly been impossible to stitch himself up back there) Bucky's face remained stony and neutral, watching the four come into view, the more clearer ones now nearly invading all of his personal space that he could feel their hot exhales on his cheeks. One with a rather stubbly jaw grinned, though it looked more like his face was being cracked, a splinter in his expression than an actual grin. "You work for Hines?" One with several crooked teeth grunted out, still keeping Bucky pressed against the wall. For now, the Soldier allowed him that form of false security that he was pinned. 

"No." Bucky answered.

The man with the cracked features pulled something out of his pocket, and with a quick _flick_ Bucky could see a glint of metal, though it was clear to him that it was a knife when it was suddenly pressed against his throat. Something near to nervousness twisted in his stomach at the feeling. "That's not what I heard." He growled out. "You stay in that shit hole, don't you? Where he keeps all those rats?" Bucky responded with a simple curl of his lip, feeling a bit more pressure on his neck now. "You've got to be doing something to earn your keep- so I'm gonna ask again," The knife broke through skin, a muscle in Bucky's cheek giving an unexpected jerk as he felt something warm and wet trickle down to his collarbone. _"Do you work for Hines?"_

 _"No."_ He spat out, teeth grinding together almost painfully as he let his eyes drift upwards to the sky, moving his jaw around to distract himself as the nervousness curled further and further in his gut, anxiety becoming its comfortable companion. 

"He's lying." Another one of the men hissed, looking quite like a rat himself with his hunched over posture and pointed nose, beady eyes searching over the man.   

Bucky was trying to overwhelm the two horrid sensations with mere annoyance. " _I'm. Not. Lying."_ He said between his teeth. "I don't work for him. I just need the shelter." 

The leader, with the slitted smile let his features settle for a moment, eyes flicking over Bucky's face for a moment before he stepped back, the knife coming away from his throat. Bucky immediately put his hand there, a small sting coming from the wound. It wasn't deep, though it would be all too pleasant to have with the icy weather. "If you don't work for him, you could at least be a little useful and send our dear friend Jamie a little message," The grin appeared again, the man stepping back and a fist flying forwards.

Bucky ducked it easily, having seen the attack coming almost immediately, his own hand coming around and gripping the mans wrist. He twisted his arm in a swift motion, rather glad it had been his metal arm free to grasp his attackers wrist, as it made it far easier to hear the snap of several bones fracturing. The man fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder as he let out a weak cry, the others taking a moments pause before moving forwards. It was all rather simple, honestly, Bucky seeing each attack, evaluating each moment before it even came, his gaze picking out weaknesses in their bodies, forms, stances. 

The rat-like man was the second one to go down, Bucky crouching to let his leg swipe beneath the mans foot, not even letting the other one to land on the ground before he tumbled, cheek scraping against the pavement before he scrambled to his feet and made his own quick escape. At least he was smart; his accomplices apparently didn't know when to give up. Another came swinging in with a flying fist, his yell becoming more of a pained gasp as Bucky raised his foot, kicking him square in the chest, watching as he smacked against the bricks and fell limp like a rag doll against the ground, having no time to check if he was dead or unconscious as something hit him from behind, slamming across his temple.

Staggering to the side, Bucky's ears rung with a sudden screeching sound in his head, vision doubling over for several seconds before he managed to right himself, wavering slightly as he turned back to the attacker. The man held out a pipe he had probably managed to pry out from its proper place, blood splattered on the metal as he held it up defensively. The fear in his eyes was evident, mainly from the fact that Bucky was now staring him down evenly after being hit in the hard with a rather brutal force.

The wolf sang as he launched forwards, feeling blood trickle down his forehead and drop off his chin like scarlet tears as he pinned the man down- the leader, actually. But Bucky couldn't see who it was, not really. His vision had suddenly gone red, the Soldier panting as he raised his fist, letting it slam down against his cheek, over and over and over again, feeling the flesh break beneath his hands, the bones cracking all too easily. Teeth flew from the mans mouth, purpled, bloody bruises panting over his cheeks and head as Bucky simply continued to hit over and over and _over and over and over again._ The beast was practically snapping at the victims neck, unbound and unrestrained. Blood splattered across the hoodie then, his sleeves and gloves turning crimson as it speckled his jaw.

 

He couldn't stop.  

 

He couldn't  _stop._

 

Every HYDRA agent was this man. Every single person who had caused him pain, who had tortured him, had suddenly become into one being, of which he was currently taking extreme pleasure in beating unconscious. All of the frustration, the pain and the anger, the confusion and anxiety and fear, everything, could suddenly be taken out on this man, who was now more of a punching bag than anything. All the memories he couldn't retrieve, all the things that slipped his mind, all the people he had had to kill, all of his targets, all of his superiors.......everything. He didn't know if it should have felt good or not, if he should have viewed it as some kind of release, or relief. Currently, all he could feel was pure, unadulterated rage. People flashed by his vision ( _targets, missions, soldiers, men, monsters)_ each slipping in and out to replace the battered, swollen features of the mans face, each letting him punch harder, and harder, and  _harder._ He let himself fall into the anger, watching each expression, letting the punches actually mean something for once rather than the times that he his metal fist against a wall for no other reason than the fact that he couldn't contain everything he felt. The faces soon became a blur to him, melting into one another. 

Bucky raised his fist again, preparing for the next face, the next wave of fury.

He was greeted with a swollen face, cut flesh, and blue eyes. 

 

_I'm with you till the end of the line._

 

 

Within a span of seconds, Bucky went from straddling his attackers chest and beating him to a bloody pulp to nearly running away from him, not caring for the mess of blood. His heart was pounding in his head, the words rattling in his skull almost painfully as he skidded down the corner, nearly slipping into the street before he brought himself against the wall, his limbs trembling as he looked over himself, swallowing thickly as his teeth began to click together. It was dripping from his fingers, staining the dark material of his hoodie, Bucky carefully bringing his hand up and swiping it across his chin, though that was an idiotic move, simply leaving him with a streak of scarlet across the stubble there. But he couldn't  _think._ All he could see was that  _acceptance,_ that expression that had made his determination to finish his mission splinter and crack, those words that had made him pull the man out from the lake. Fear made his knees buckle, Bucky sliding down the wall and simply staring at his hands. 

Two weeks of keeping himself isolated within the safe house had led to this. Running away from Steve had led to this.

Bucky decided not to think about whether the man was dead, unconscious, or disfigured as he shakily got up, staring at the ground as using the wall for support as he made his way down the sidewalk, his whole body shaking almost violently not only from the cold, but his own terror. His metal hand clenched into a fist before loosening again, repeating the action over as he walked back down the street, his feet leading him back to the safe house. He didn't notice how his hand left a bloody imprint on the door as he pushed it open, his breathing stuttering and trembling as he came in, it being the only sound among the snores around.

Carefully, Bucky came to his couch, managing to sit down. He didn't think about what the men had wanted from Jamie. He didn't think about what they would do when most of them were brought back to a conscious state. He was thinking about the blood on his hands, nearly wanting to gag. Bucky had been right in his own earlier assumption; he was practically drowning in it now.

 

* * *

 

Things did not go well in the morning. They went far from 'well', actually. Bucky hadn't slept at all that night, simply sitting up and staring at the wall blankly, the scene replaying over and over in his hand, switching between the moments he had been pounding down the man in the alley to the moments he had been pounding down Steve Rogers. He had remained in the almost dream-like state before someone screeched, snapping him out of the thoughts completely. He had wondered why for a moment, becoming panicked that they had seen his arm, though he quickly realized it was the blood staining his clothes and his face. It had dried by now, seeming almost painted into his flesh at the moment as people went scrambling to corners or out the door, fearful of the man. Bucky had gotten to his feet then, trying to calm everyone down. 

It had been a blur from there, leaving him more than confused. Jamie had touched his shoulders, voice going from soft to a sharp bark as Bucky began to babble about something, possibly trying to explain, or possibly just spouting off gibberish, watching as the other man shook his head, his mouth moving but no sound coming out (or at least no sound that Bucky could here). There was still that dull ringing in his ears, now efficiently blocking out the others words. The next thing he'd known those hands were guiding him out, and suddenly, he was walking down the street. The reality hit him awfully hard from there, Bucky stopping and simply staring at the ground with wide, almost glazed eyes.

 

Jamie had kicked him out. 

 

It didn't take all too much brainpower to figure it all out, really. His expression had been fearful, angry, not concerned or worried with the fact that the blood could have easily been Bucky's as well. All he'd known what that the Soldier had hurt someone. That was all he needed to know, really. Bucky couldn't blame him for outing him though, really; if the roles were reversed, he would have done the exact same thing. Jamie was keeping a business, not a charity, and Bucky had begun to become a burden anyways. It was understandable; it was logical. He shouldn't have been so hurt about it. He didn't even know  _why_ he was so hurt about it. Jamie had been kind to him, yes, but he'd held no real sentimental value to Bucky. Not really. Perhaps he truly was breaking. Or maybe he was already broken. It was probably the latter.

Bucky kept to the shadows for the remainder of the day, deciding that it probably wasn't best to go out in daylight with blood encrusted in his clothes and face. It was actually beginning to itch, the Soldier scratching at his chin and grimacing once as he saw the rusty flecks fall away. He moved occasionally from alley to alley, watching as people passed. It was another time to be thankful for their unawareness; if someone was actually observant, he would have already been taken into police custody, and that was something he wasn't very interested in happening.

The hunger pains had begun to really hit him midday, Bucky bending over and hissing before he simply laid himself down on the ground, curling up against his satchel and focusing on rest, managing to almost force himself to sleep. That helped him escape the pain for several hours, Bucky waking when he felt a boot nudge at his back, snapping his head up almost immediately and hearing a whispered, _"shit",_ before someone scampered away. Thankfully, it was evening, Bucky waiting just a bit longer before he came out, then promptly went to scrounging through the trash. He had never thought he'd sink to such levels, but there was no use in complaining. It would only further prove to himself that he was weak, pathetic, and that was an idea he wished to simply squash rather than strengthen. Bucky found several edible items, one of them being a half eaten sandwich that was still wrapped somewhat so that it hadn't been touching the rest of the garbage (at least not completely touching the rest of it).

As he huddled into a corner, most of the blood gone from his face, swallowing down the rest of what remained of the sandwich, Bucky began to realize how truly desperate he was becoming. It was amazing he hadn't actually realized it sooner, but it was possibly the shock keeping him from thinking in a more logical sense. Yes- that was it. Just the shock (he was becoming far too afraid that he was losing himself, in all actuality). Throwing the wrapper elsewhere, Bucky leaned against the wall, head cradled coldly by the bricks as he closed his eyes, breathing out quietly. This was fine. He was fine. Bucky had survived worse. He would survive this. He  _would._

 

* * *

 

It took him approximately four days to give up on that idea that he would survive.

Bucky could barely stand going through the day without food, only managing to scrape up something that could be eaten, though it was barely enough to feed him for the day. After nearly two weeks of slowly starving, Bucky would have thought he was used to the pain by now, though that was hardly it. It simply seemed to get worse and worse with each passing day, intensifying with each and every movement and moment. The only relief he got from it was from sleep, though that was something that was becoming increasingly harder to achieve with each passing day. He would either be woken up by someone prodding at him to see if he was dead so they could steal off of him, or by a flash of some memory that he didn't, or simply couldn't, see. Those ones always bothered him; they were the bad ones. The bad memories. He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to actually remember those ones. 

It was the fourth night that he actually, truly did give up. He'd been trying to find shelter from the sudden slow fall, shivering and shaking in the cold as he watched passerby's go around, clearly warm in their large fur coats or parkas, boots and all. In the moment, he had wondered vaguely if he could simply sprint out and rip the articles of clothing off of them to keep for his own without anyone seeing, though he knew it was a bit more than delusional to think of something like that possible. The snow began to fall harder, Bucky's nose turning bright red as he sniffled, trying to warm his hands by breathing onto them, though it hardly helped. Inhaling simply made his lungs feel brittle, (could ones lungs actually feel brittle?) and he was sure that by now they were frozen from all the ice he had possibly breathed in during the last few days. It had been in that moment that Bucky realized that if he went another day, he'd probably be dead. Frozen over like the rest of them, becoming a human popsicle on the side of the street. He was already developing a cold, and he was more than afraid to see what it would evolve into within the next several hours. 

There weren't many options for him at the moment, really; he couldn't go back to Jamie, and he was quite sure that no one would be so kind as to simply take in a homeless man who had blood stained all over his clothes and crusted under his fingernails (he'd managed to get most of it off of his face with the help of the snow). Bucky had debated on turning himself into the cops then, wondering if it would be better to go there rather than to freeze further, though he had decided against it. He'd rather much die in this way rather than whatever other way the court decided to sentence him to. Bucky had begun to wander about for several hours, not wanting to remain in one single place else his legs stiffen and make him unable to move. It was better to move and think anyways. Where else was there for him to go? He didn't have any money to travel out of the city, and he couldn't just walk out of it without possibly dropping dead. 

It was pure and utter desperation that drove him to ask around, the idea popping in his head and seeming like the best, if not only, option he currently had. A few gave him strange looks, several shrugging their shoulders. His sneezing had developed into a horrid cough that made his throat and chest ache when he finally got an answer, the man pointing him into the right direction (what he  _hoped_ was the right direction anyways). He trudged through the growing snow, exhausted and sick, but determined all the same. 

Bucky wanted to nearly cry when he found out that he would have to practically climb up the building, finding out that one couldn't enter the actual building without ringing up someone within the apartment complex (and he definitely wasn't going to do that). So, he'd made his way up the fire escape, each step seeming slower and more sluggish than the next, Bucky breathing in and out heavily through his mouth as he made his way along, the  _something_ in his head insisting that he would be fine, that he could make it, that this all had a purpose. Once he got there, it would all be fine. He trusted the  _something_ for once, not knowing what else to do and deciding that the pessimistic view on all of this was not something that was all too favorable for his mental state of the moment, nor his physical one. Finally,  _finally_ he made it up the stair, taking a moment to catch his breath before he tried to open the window, cursing under his breath before he simply snapped, pulling back his fist and shattering the glass, reaching in a hand and unlocking it from the inside. He simply covered it up with the drapes to leave out the draft, staggering forwards towards the couch and plopping down, rubbing his hands together and shivering before he tried to let the heat comfort him, leaning his head back and sighing, closing his eyes. No, he couldn't survive out on the streets, or even in the cold, though he currently didn't have a clue as to how he was going to survive within Steve Rogers apartment either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th of July everyone! And happy birthday Steve Rogers!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ridding himself of the crusty hoodie, Bucky removed the tarnished grey shirt beneath it, managing to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror, dulled eyes lingering on his shoulder. Scarred human flesh suddenly became harsh metal, the skin around it toughened and puckered. He let his fingers smooth over the line where the two met, organic to artificial, letting out a heavy, silent sigh as his hand dropped back to his side.

It took several hours for Steve to get back to his apartment, and in that time, Bucky investigated. 

 

After managing to make himself less frozen, the Soldier got up off the couch and first analyzed the space he was currently taking up. Nothing too fancy, from what he could see. Everything was rather simple, slightly plain, but not boring. He moved around the couch, glove slipping off so he could let the metal fingers glide over the surface of the leather, moving it over the countertop, the television screen. It was strange, letting the hand actually feel something after such a long time of keeping it concealed. It was still the same numb, muted sensation, of course- nothing had changed about it. So why did it feel different?

He pushed the question aside as he went into the kitchen, his stomach dragging him into the room and nearly taking over his body, commanding his movements to open up fridge. There was leftover Chinese boxes, a gallon of milk and orange juice right beside it, a carton of eggs, packs of lunch meat, condiments and spreads, everything laid out before his eyes. But the  _something_ forced his hands to stay at his sides, the hunger showing through his eyes, but not his actions.  _Steve needs this,_ It said.  _Steve needs it._

He knew, logically, Steve didn't  _really_ need them. From what he'd seen, the man was in a fairly good condition. So why was it that the _something_ persisted that he wasn't? That he was frail, fragile, breakable? 

Feeling slightly frustrated, Bucky closed the fridge, forcibly overwhelming the feeling of hunger with curiosity as he wandered around the apartment. He examined pictures, eyes wandering over the faces, watching the motionless images and squinting, as if somehow looking at them closer would suddenly make his memories reappear. It didn't, of course, and Bucky moved on. Back over to the couch, just to see if there was any money between the cushions in case he decided to scram. He knew he wouldn't, but still, it was possible, and he didn't want to go back into the cold with nothing.

It felt wrong, incredibly wrong, to dig around the cushions; it felt like he was stealing. He'd stolen before, yes, but this was....worse. He didn't like how he felt as though he couldn't take anything from here. He'd taken so much in the past; money, missions, lives. So why couldn't he take a few crumpled dollars and hidden pennies?

Bucky went to see the bathroom soon after that, looking through the cabinet behind the mirror. A bottle of Advil, an extra plastic toothbrush, (probably for visitors who stayed over) extra toothpaste, floss, the like. Closing it, Bucky looked to the shower, and wasted little to no time in deciding that yes, getting clean was definitely something he could allow himself to do. Ridding himself of the crusty hoodie, Bucky removed the tarnished grey shirt beneath it, managing to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror, dulled eyes lingering on his shoulder. Scarred human flesh suddenly became harsh metal, the skin around it toughened and puckered. He let his fingers smooth over the line where the two met, organic to artificial, letting out a heavy, silent sigh as his hand dropped back to his side. 

The rest of his clothes remained in a crumpled corner at the corner of the room, Bucky quickly and quietly entering the shower, feeling strangely vulnerable though he knew no one was there. He was out of his armor, without protection, and it felt _wrong_. He decided to ignore the feeling, turning the tap and exhaling calmly when slowly warming water came out from the shower head. He stood under it for a rather long time, simply enjoying the hot spray before he actually began to clean himself.

The fruity smell of whatever shampoo Steve used remained in his nostrils, nearly stinging them as he rubbed it through his hair, eyes closing as a feeling of relaxation came over him. He massaged his scalp, taking his time with it all. He scrubbed at his skin gently, ridding himself of the dirt and grime that had almost been permanently ingrained into his skin, watching the water turn brown, and then more to a rusty color as he got what remained of the blood off from his hands. Bucky didn't harshly scrub it off, making the skin red and raw and numb, but instead did it as calmly and quietly as he had cleaned the rest of his skin.

He stayed in the shower, even after he had gotten the suds out of his hair and off of his skin, only turning off the water when it began to run cold. He found a towel to wrap around himself, using another to dry his hair off before rummaging through the pockets of his rumpled jeans and finding a ponytail, pulling the damp strands back and out of his face. It was definitely good to be clean; sure, it didn't wipe away anything he had done, anything he would do, but at the very least it made him feel a bit better than he would have been when he had been filthy.

Begrudgingly, Bucky put back on his old clothes, which felt far more itchier than he had originally remembered. He left the hoodie on the floor, not wanting the blood to still be attached to any part of his being. Barefoot, skin still having a certain shine from the shower and the soap, the man finally wandered into the guest room, finding it rather plain, lacking anything distinctive there, though it wasn't as though anything should have been there, considering it was a  _guest_ room, and the people who took short residence here were only doing so temporarily. 

And then finally he came to the bedroom. It wasn't so plain as the guest room- the walls were a beige sort of color, though with the light coming in through the window they somehow looked lighter, possibly yellow, (or maybe that was just Bucky hallucinating. It happened sometimes, so it wouldn't be all too much of a shock) There were a few pictures here and there of people Bucky didn't recognize, (though, in all honesty, there weren't too many people that he actually ever _did_ recognize) a dresser, and a mirror. Standing in the doorway, Bucky leaned his weight on one side of the frame, staring down at the bed. It was neatly made, covers and sheets tucked in, looking almost untouched at the moment, though Bucky could easily see it had been used. Coming forwards, Bucky stopped at the foot of the bed, placing a hand down on the soft duvet, eyes fixed on the middle of the bed.

His attention shifted elsewhere eventually, Bucky finally taking a look at the pictures. A few were of Steve in simple, casual wear from this century, usually accompanied by the same people. His eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of the woman- the one who had been with him, with Steve, during the fighting, when HYDRA had fallen. His eyes searched over his face, lip curling just a small bit before he turned away, putting the photo down and moving towards the window, pushing away the light curtain to see the outside. He wasn't sure why- perhaps it was simply a need to check if anyone was out there, if anyone he knew or saw from the pictures would enter the building. Thankfully, he saw no one, letting the curtain fall back in its place.

From there, Bucky simply moved around. He sat on the couch, stared at the fridge for several minutes, went back to the bedroom, tried to clean off his pants a bit, (he failed to do so) and repeated the process over several times before there was a disturbance in the routine he'd set up for himself. 

A knock at the door made him jump up from the couch, eyes sharp and expression suddenly hardening. His entire body seemed to tense, muscles coiling and clenching as he stalked towards the door, pressing himself flat against it and carefully looking through the peephole, his fingers curling into a tight fist. He relaxed only slightly when he saw it was a slightly flustered looking woman, her eyes flickering either way before her knuckles hit against the wood once more. Bucky waited there, even after she sighed, letting her hand fall back down to her side, walking away and behind another door. Ah. She was a...neighbor then. Steve's neighbor. He continued to wait there, to possibly see if she would return before falling back, watching the door from a small distance, then actually settling back down on the couch. Whatever she wanted, he could hardly care- he was waiting for Steve, and that was it.   
  
His mind began to wander then, wondering exactly what would happen if (no, no, there were no 'if's here; he was doing this, he wouldn't back down from it) Steve saw him. Would he show him compassion? Possibly. Would he make him leave? Also fairly possible, all things considered. Steve had most likely learned of all the things he had done in the past, all of the people he had killed. He wouldn't be so accepting now, even if he had known him in the past, Bucky was sure. And now, he was simply getting nervous. The thought that Steve would growl for him to leave, would show him all the horrid things he had done, would simply reject him as a whole made the idea of fleeing now more and more promising. It was better freezing to death than facing that, in his own opinion.

It took him approximately two hours to decide that no, he wasn't going to do that. He wasn't simply going to sit here and wait for that man, that _memory,_ to come through the door and tell him to leave. He would simply do that himself, and save what nonexistent pride and dignity he had. The man moved off of the couch, looking to the bathroom and sighing, moving over to it and plucking out his hoodie, looking over the bloodstains on it. This would help to get people to avoid him- he would hardly be able to stand another nosy homeless person coming up and asking for the life story that he didn't even know. Yes, he knew that they were simply trying to be 'friendly' or whatnot, but he couldn't take it. 

Collecting what little things he had left behind, Bucky took another glance at the fridge, his stomach begging him to take it, but his mind commanding him to leave it. Well, not his mind. It was the damn _something_ again. He  _hated_ that _something._ Shaking his head, Bucky put back on the hoodie, scratching a little at the darkened stains, rusty flecks coming off and landing on the floor. Letting out a quiet exhale, Bucky made his way back to the window, stopping quickly by the couch and reaching his hand inside again, just to feel for the change, telling himself, (or rather, telling the  _something)_ that it was fine, that he needed it much more than Steve did. 

He had pulled out three dollars worth of quarters, nickels, and pennies when Steve opened the door.

 

It took several seconds for both of them to register what was before him. Bucky's thought process wasn't quite the same as Steve's, most of it simply urging him to flee now. He still had the chance- Steve hadn't quite realized it was him yet. He still had time to go, before he did......whatever it was he would do. But Bucky actually  _wanted_ to stay, if only just to figure out what the other was going to do. Was he going to hit him? Was he going to growl and snap and yell and bark? That was what he was expecting- what else would he do, really? This wasn't the man he remembered; this disheveled, delusion, amnesic serial killer. This was someone else....some _thing_ else entirely. Bucky felt something tighten in his chest slightly, though still, he remained in his spot, not even moving an inch. 

The grocery bags that Steve had been caring promptly dropped from his hand, though he set them down carefully instead of simply letting them fall to the floor, unknown emotions flashing over his face. As far as Bucky could see, most of it honestly was shock, though everything else....he couldn't tell. And that scared him quite a bit. Well, not knowing scared him in general, but not knowing about  _this...._ it was terrifying. Bucky let his tongue flick out over his lips, feeling and hearing his heart beginning to pound inside his head, the sound echoing throughout his skull and causing a minor headache, though it was fairly easy to ignore as he watched Steve slowly make his way forwards, each step seeming hesitant, cautious, as if he was afraid Bucky might simply launch himself at him. Bucky hardly blamed him; it wasn't something that was entirely impossible. Although, the window seemed like a much better place to launch himself at than the man.

Slowly, painfully, the man finally stood in front of Bucky, blue eyes meeting with his own dulled ones. They searched his face, his being, and Bucky felt himself tense when he realized the other was moving. He was going to punch him, wasn't he? That would be fine, he was sure- he'd taken on plenty of damage in the past, and one single punch wasn't going to make him fall apart all of the sudden. He shut his eyes, his body ready and waiting for the contact that he knew would come. He didn't want to see it though- the look of anger that would soon cross over Steve's face, the curling lip and burning eyes. Bucky could handle a hit, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stand something like that.

A crushing weight suddenly came around him, the instinct to thrash out of the hold coming over him, though Bucky resisted it. His eyes snapped open, staring out at the wall and Steve's shoulder. His arms were thick, he noticed then, and he was....warm. Bucky blinked several times, confusion sweeping over him before he felt Steve begin to constrict him further, his head burying into his neck. The Soldier could feel the warm, stuttering breaths against his skin. Bucky had spent months, possibly even years without contact, or at least without friendly contact. Since he had awoken, there had been no fond hand on the shoulder or the back of the neck, no pats on the back, and especially nothing that could have even been considered a hug. With such a closed-in space, no way to escape, he thought he would have been frantic, panicked and violent, but it was....it was welcomed. More than welcomed, really. 

He remained stiff and unresponsive for a fairly long time before he finally gave a twitch of movement, his arms slowly coming up and around the other, breathing heavily as he did so, suddenly feeling breathless for no particular reason. Perhaps Steve was actually crushing him. Slowly, the light touch turned into a strong grip, Bucky gripping the back of Steve's shirt and keeping his eyes open as he buried his nose into the others shoulder, trembling slightly. Puddles of wetness touched at his cheek and nose, though Bucky hardly noticed. Steve was saying something to him, he was sure- he should have been listening, but he simply couldn't. The feeling, the contact, was near to overwhelming, filling up all of his senses and making it almost impossible to think. So he simply stopped trying, the Soldier wept silently on the mans shoulder as murmured apologies consumed the quiet of the apartment.

 

* * *

 

_ "Who are you?"  _

_ The light was harsh, burning his corneas and making a certain twang of agony pulse right into the base of his skull. He put his hand up to try and block it out- or, at least he would have, had it not been for the fact that he couldn't move his hands. Leather strapped them down to the arms of the chair, too tight, too tight. Inhale. Head down, don't look up, he wasn't supposed to look up. Something ragged hit his ears, seeming uneven and heavy, making the pain seep further into his temple.   Hands shot out, fingers wrapping around his jaw (too tight too tight) and forcing him to look up. He squinted, eyes straining to see, senses simply straining to work in general. _

_ He didn't remember how he had gotten here. There had been fighting (so much blood too much blood) and he'd- he'd seen something. Something that had made his head hurt, his heart ache. He vaguely remembered dropping to his knees, nearly choking on the air that came in through the slits of his mask, invisible hands wrapped around his throat, strangling him silently. Or perhaps that had been wrapped around his lungs.  _

_ It was a distant blur from there, fists beating into his stomach, a scarlet liquid, thick and warm, dripping from his lips, making his teeth rust. And then he was here. But he was used to these white outs, these moments of memory loss. Wasn't he? Possibly- he couldn't remember. The light was making it hard to think. He opened his mouth then, (whether to answer or to breath, he didn't know) though all that came out was a distant pant.  _

_ Oh. So that ragged sound was him._

_ A smack echoed throughout the room, his vision now shifted over to a wall as a certain sting numbed the flesh of his cheek. "_ _ I asked you a question." The voice snapped, the hiss evident within the tone now. It was no longer a question, but rather, a demand. And one he had to answer._

_ He swallowed down the panting."I-" The words ended with another meeting of palm to cheek. Slowly, he let his eyes meet back to the woman's own dark ones, able to see his own reflection in the beetle-like irises. A welt began to form on his cheek, his jaw slackened, chest heaving up and down as his own sunken eyes stared back at him.  _

_ "You're no one. Do you understand?" She was political again. Calm, deathly so. "No one. Unless we say you're someone, you're no one. You are  _ nothing."

 

Wrong.  _Something cried in the back of his head, scratching at his crumbling consciousness._ Wrong wrong wrong  **wrong.**

 

_ "If I say it's night, it's night. If I say the grass is blue, it's blue." She continued. She didn't blink once. "If it's how I say it is, that's exactly how it is." There was a pause, as if waiting for a response. Silence met her. "So, if I say you're no one, you're no one. Am," She moved closer an inch. "I," Blood dripped off of his chin. "Understood?" _

_The last shred of whatever had been fighting the oncoming nauseousness, the complete and utter blankness that began to approach grappled at his mind then. It begged him to remember something, anything, though what was there to remember? He was no one- he was nothing. He knew nothing, not unless they told him he knew something. What was the point of remembering anything if there was nothing to remember?_

_The fingers retracted, the nails painted red with his blood. He lifted his head up towards the light, watching it with dulled eyes._

_"Yes."_

 

 

"Yes...what? What're you talking about, Buck?"

 

Bucky blinked out of the haze, looking to Steve as he leaned over his thighs a bit, staring at him with a furrowed brow and a deep frown. Bucky cleared his throat, a chill running down his spine and making him feel all the more jumpy. "Sorry, I- uh...." _Oh, you know._ _I was just remembering how I was tortured in HYDRA. Nothing too important._  "....never mind. It's....it's nothing."He gave a shaky smile, the first he had managed in the past several hours. It didn't seem to ease Steve at all, the man simply looking at him for a long moment before giving a tight nod. 

There was a silence that took over the room for a fairly long time, Steve simply looking at Bucky, and Bucky looking at the wall. He had gotten out at least several words during this whole ordeal, though Steve didn't seem all too concerned with his speech, that mainly being directed towards his health. Bucky had, eventually, eaten something, after Steve had finally seem the slight gauntness of his face and realized quickly that he must have been rather hungry. He'd eaten two salami sandwiches while Steve stared at him, simply seeming to soak in the sight of the man in his home, alive, and not trying to kill him. Steve had been careful all the same, not making any sudden movements, always making sure Bucky knew where he was. It made him feel slightly better, if not a bit shameful for some reason. Perhaps it was because Steve actually _knew_ how fragile he was, despite Bucky blatantly denying it himself. 

After seeing how his clothes were covered and sprayed in blood, the man had offered him a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants that were too big around the waist. Bucky was thankful he hadn't questioned how he had gotten them stained.Then, Steve had him sit down on the couch, going into another room with a phone. Bucky had strained his ears to hear, though all he could make out was mumbled rambling and some murmurs before finally giving up completely. He simply hoped Steve wasn't calling for someone to come and take him, though something in him doubted as much. Or at the very least, he was hoping that wasn't what Steve had done.

Bucky realized quickly then that Steve was talking again, trying to focus his attention on the man, though his eyes remained on the wall all the same.

"-all over. They all thought I was going too far into this, but.....you're here."  Steve said with the slight quirk of a smile, looking at Bucky with some kind of hope in his eyes. He wasn't sure what he was hoping of, really- that he would be the man he'd known whatever years ago. Probably not. If Bucky were being completely honest with himself, and with everyone else, it was less than likely that he'd simply be the person he was before. Too many things had happened to him. He'd lost himself, in a way. There was no real way to redeem himself, really. No- there was no way to redeem himself. That much was impossible. What he had to do was reclaim himself. Or perhaps simply claim a new self. It was getting rather complicated.

Giving a small nod, Bucky flexed his metal hand instinctively, finally looking over to Steve when blue eyes flicked over the artificial appendage, though he averted his gaze. There was the silence again, consuming both of them, making Steve awfully uncomfortable. Bucky liked the silence, really; it was much better than the blast of grenades, the crash of metal, the bang of weapons firing. It was far better. "I avoided you." He said after seven minutes, Steve's brows raising in surprise that he had actually spoken, and what he had said as well. "I didn't want to see you. I didn't want to come near you." 

"....what?" Steve's voice was quiet. Not small- just quiet.

It took Bucky three more minutes to speak again, the silence seeming to stretch on longer than that time. "I was...." It took him a much longer to force the word out of his throat. "....afraid." He gave no further explanation. He didn't want to.

Steve looked at him for a very long time, his body twitching, taking several long breaths before he got up. Watching him in the corner of his eye, Bucky kept his eyes on the floor instead of the man, feeling his body weigh down the cushion next to him. Bucky kept his hands in his lap, pulling his sleeve further up, so that it would possibly cover up his hand. He saw Steve become hesitant with his movements, and was rather happy with himself when he didn't flinch at the hand that met his shoulder. He didn't turn his head to look at Steve, simply closing his eyes and feeling a small wave of relief move through him at the contact. He should have been fearful of how calming a simple touch was, really, but at the moment he was far too tired to think about it.

Gently, slowly, carefully, (all of Steve's movements seemed to contain all three) he was turned to the side, the man bringing him into his arms. Bucky remained still through all of it, the embrace not nearly as tight as it had been the first time, where hands had balled into the backs of each others shirts, their trembling bodies pressed far too close together, as if the other would simply fall apart if they even thought of letting go. Well, at least that was Steve's way of looking at it; Bucky had simply been afraid that the other would simply slip away from him, just another distant memory he could never quite recall.

Bucky kept his head on Steve's shoulder as the other held him, feeling a hand rub up and down his back. The sentiment felt strange, the affection nearly foreign to him at this point. Perhaps that's why he remained so stiff within the embrace. Steve didn't say anything, though the message was quite clear, as cliche as the words were.  _You_ _don't have to be afraid anymore._

Again, the sentiment was well appreciated, but there was just one thing about it: He did. He did have to be afraid. There were people still wanted his head on a silver platter, there were still people out there who would want him in the same way HYDRA had used him. Honestly, simply letting him be known by Steve was a danger. Though SHIELD had been dismantled, Bucky had no doubt that some other force would take its place, and he would have no where to hide. Not with him, at the very least; he was the worlds superhero, the first one. Of course people would be keeping tabs on him, and it was only a matter of time before someone realized who he was, what he had done. All eyes would go to him, and he'd either be stuck in a glass box for the rest of his life, or killed.

So yes. There was plenty to be afraid of. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve did realize he was broken, of course. He simply seemed to think that the old Bucky was the same as him, and so they were both broken. That wasn't true, though he never felt like ruining Steve's reasoning, nor his logic. He simply left him be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a VERY late update, and let me first say that I am very sorry. These days have been a bit hectic for me, but rest assured, I won't be suddenly dropping this anytime soon. I'm just having an extremely bad case of writers block at the moment....hopefully I'll soon get over it.

Within the first week of being at Steve's, Bucky noticed that he stared. A lot.

Honestly, he could hardly blame him for doing so. They had known each other rather well, apparently, (or at least that's what the biographies had said) and it must have been quite a shock to suddenly see his friend here, in the flesh, after all they had been through. Bucky wished he had more than just clinical words from webpages and museums to help him remember all those things that 'they had been through', really. It would have been better to have actual emotion within those kinds of things. Steve constantly asked him if he remembered something, anything, and the answer was, usually, no. Memories came and went, though the second they were done, they were simply....gone. It was frustrating, definitely, but it was better than _not_ getting those little flashes from his past. 

So far, there hadn't been much of a change within the range of what he could remember. It wasn't as though he had been expecting to remember everything at once, (that would probably be a bit more than a little painful) but an actual, solid memory would have been better than the fleeting visions he got randomly during the night, or the day. The ones during the night were better than the day- they lasted longer. Or perhaps they were more dreams than memories. He didn't know- he liked to think that they were memories. It made him feel a bit better. 

Things had been getting better in other senses, besides in the sense of his own mental mess. He was much cleaner now, and Steve had practically been force feeding him most of the time. The instinct to let Steve eat first never went away, much to the mans own dismay. He didn't seem to enjoy the strange habit, though at first Steve had seemed to find it a rather nice thing. Perhaps it was because it reminded him of the Bucky he had had before. The one who wasn't so...broken.

Steve did realize he was broken, of course. He simply seemed to think that the old Bucky was the same as him, and so they were both broken. That wasn't true, though he never felt like ruining Steve's reasoning, nor his logic. He simply left him be. 

The rest of the time, in between Steve talking about things he didn't remember and couldn't understand and Bucky ignoring the fact that Steve was blatantly staring, they shared a comfortable sort of silence. Usually, Bucky would sit himself on the couch, back straight and body only slightly tense, while the super soldier puttered around his apartment. Sometimes he sat down with Bucky, looking at the TV and trying to make small talk. He wouldn't say too much back, giving nods and hums and grunts, though Steve didn't seem to mind all too much. In all honesty, he just seemed happy that Bucky was there. It was understandable- most of the people he had known were either dead, or close to being dead. Even if Bucky was no where near the same as he had once been, it was better than nothing. 

The mornings had become the usual time for actually talking. Steve would either talk on the phone, to himself, or, (on the rare occasion) have an actual conversation with Bucky. It wasn't much more than the occasional sounds, of course, but at the very least they were actual words. Currently, Steve was talking about something funny that some man named 'Bruce' had done, though Bucky wasn't paying all too much attention, flexing his metal arm carefully. It was beginning to feel just slightly stiff, though that was fine. It was probably just because he hadn't been using it so much, or at least not using it for fighting or climbing, or whatever else. The most he would use it now was to reach for something, pull open a drawer, the like. Nothing too strenuous. The metal plating shifted, tightening and coiling as he tensed the limb, the slight scrape of metal on metal making Steve pause for just a moment before continuing on with his story. Bucky only started paying attention to what he was saying when the pointless words were suddenly directed at him. 

"Sunny side up or omelette?" Steve questioned, turning to look over his shoulder with a raised brow. 

Bucky let out a sound close to a grunt. "Surprise me."

Steve smiled a bit, the tiredness in his expression rather evident. He wasn't getting enough sleep. Bucky knew that for a fact, actually; he saw him standing outside his bedroom each night. It wasn't like that bothered him, really- perhaps Steve was trying to make sure he wasn't going to do anything, go anywhere. Perhaps he was simply trying to make sure he was real. 

There was several beats of comfortable silence, Steve puttering around, Bucky looking out the window as he clasped his hands together, tightening the hold before letting it release, repeating the process several times as he watched the snow drift down in little clumps. He nearly didn't notice Steve come over, looking up to the man as he placed down a plate with his breakfast, hot chocolate put down along with it. Bucky cupped his hands around the mug, bringing it up to his mouth and relishing how the liquid burned his tongue, how it warmed his body. Steve settled down just across from him, digging into his own breakfast; two pieces of bacon, and a piece of toast accompanied by a cup of coffee. Bucky had decided the flavor wasn't something he enjoyed- he would much rather have something that was sweet make his throat hurt rather than something bitter.

"We've got a lot to catch you up on," Steve said, after swallowing a bit of his toast, Bucky freezing for a moment. Was he going to try and get him to remember? So soon? Sure, Steve had hinted at it, but he hadn't-

"I've got a whole list of the things I missed when I was under." Oh. _Oh._ The slight tension in Bucky's shoulders eased. That was what he meant. "Mostly it's just movies and albums of songs, so it's pretty easy to get through. The technology isn't that hard to work either- though I'm sure you won't have too much of a problem with that." Bucky resisted the urge to flinch (of course he would have little problem with technology; he had used it on a daily basis for his assassinations with HYDRA). Steve seeming to sense that he had said something that was could be placed on the Not So Good list, hopping onto another subject rather quickly. "How'd you sleep last night?" He asked in a conversational tone, looking down at his plate instead of Bucky.  _  
_

Taking a moment to respond, busy with nibbling with the piece of his omelette on his fork, shrugged. "Good."

'Good' had become Bucky's own meaning of "I actually got sleep." It wasn't even the nightmares that were the real problem- he'd kept awake for hours before, within HYDRA and on missions. He was used to getting two hours, four if he was lucky, and then going out for his missions. Even when he didn't have anything to actually do, no person to kill or item to retrieve, he didn't sleep. There was the constant need to stay awake, to stay alert, that he simply couldn't shake.

Steve waited a moment, as if expecting some other comment from the man, though when silence became his answer he smiled and nodded. "I'm glad. I know the pipes might be a little noisy at night....the building said that they would get that fixed eventually, but that was months ago, so I've grown pretty used to it." He shrugged, bringing his mug up to his lips, taking a sip of his steaming coffee. Bucky continued to poke at his eggs. Several more moments of silence followed, both simply seeming to focus on their food. 

It's a thing that Bucky usually did himself. It didn't even matter if it was just a slow conversation or if Steve was trying to recount some memory; he would simply turn his head away, focus on something else entirely, and then the moment of conversation was over. Yes, it was rude, but he liked the silence. The usual chatter that Steve provided wasn't unwelcome, of course. It simply wasn't necessary. 

It took a long time for either of them to do anything. Steve drank his coffee, absently reading over a paper, the dialogue in his head unknown to the Soldier, though the context of it was easily seen in his brows, raising and furrowing every so often as his eyes darted across the page. Bucky put his attention between the window and Steve, watching the snow fall and form into white, fluffy clumps on the street outside (he vaguely wondered what he would have been doing at this point, though a more blunt part of his conscious easily answered the question: he wouldn't be doing anything. He'd just be dead). 

The usual routine of the morning continued on from there; Bucky took the plates and washed them in the sink, (because he did want to at least feel useful to the man who could have easily cast him out of his home) and Steve leaned against the counter, checking over a few messages on his phone, (Bucky always looked over them out of the corner of his eye; almost always there were six text messages from a contact named 'Sam', several from another named 'Stark', and on the rare occasion, one from a 'Clint'; Steve, although texting to the contact numerous times, never got a response from 'Nat') and they both simply seemed to coincide in some strange, peaceful, if not slightly dysfunctional, way. 

He knew for a fact that Steve wanted something more than coexistence. He wanted companionship, friendship, more than just the uneasy association that was only based on the fact that Steve had been the only true clue he had to the life he'd lived before this. 

Of course, Bucky was more than sure that wouldn't happen. And even if it did, it would take time. Steve seemed patient though; he hadn't yet forced anything upon Bucky, had only hovered during the moments when Bucky had stared off into space when they were talking, waiting until it was done to ask, get no answer, and continue on with the conversation (though there was always that concern on his face; not hidden, not a shadow or a glint, it was just plain concern). That was nice, Bucky had to admit. That patience, and that understanding. HYDRA hadn't offered that. No one had. 

"You think you could go out today?" Steve asked absently as he looked up from his phone, brows raised slightly. At the lack of a response and Bucky turning the tap to make the force of the water a bit greater, his lips pulled into a frown, the man putting his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. "You'll have to go out sometime, you know. You can't just be cooped up in here forever- and besides, what am I going to say when someone asks to come over?"

Bucky's teeth ground in a slightly painful way, jaw setting as his gaze remained glued on the plates. "Tell them they can't."

"And if they ask why?"

"Tell them they just  _can't."_

 Steve looked at him with a slightly hard stare, though he showed no other emotion other than slight annoyance and possibly disapproval before he finally relented, sighing and shaking his head. "Could you at least-?"

 _"No."_ The words came out forceful- a bit too forceful, actually. It took quite a bit of effort not to break the plate in his hand. At the sight of Steve's mouth curling downwards further and further though, concern and confusion laced into his expression. "....no. No." The man said just a bit softer, quieter, swallowing thickly as the usual morning headache came upon him, the slight pounding that he assumed had something to do with his memories taking a little crack at the wall that HYDRA had seemingly set up. Or at least that was a more metaphorical, if not slightly poetic way to look at it. It was better than thinking that he possibly had some form of brain damage (which was very likely, due to the fact that Bucky had gotten his head smashed in on more than one occasion). "Time." Bucky said after a moment, breaking through the silence as the water continued to run, his hands continuing on with the deft task of cleaning. "I need....I need time. Give me time."

It felt a bit odd to ask that, of course- he had never asked before. Before, he hadn't even thought he was able to ask anything. If he was told to do something, he didn't ask for  _time._ He just went and....well, he just went and did it. There was no time to ask for, really, HYDRA seeming to want to get everything done quickly so they could get their Soldier back under ice, wanting to keep his mind nice and blank for the next time they used him. If he had asked for anything.....well, to say the very least, Bucky was more than sure he would have gotten something more than a little slap. 

But Steve just nodded his head, expression softening considerably as he came to Bucky's side. "Of course," He said, tone gentle and understanding. Bucky didn't turn his head back towards the other, though he could see the way his hand twitched, coming up and hesitating before he placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch mostly just hovering rather than actually making contact. "Take all the time you need, Buck. It doesn't matter how long it takes- just....just get comfortable with everything. Just get comfortable, and then we'll see about going out or something, okay?" Steve offered a smile. Bucky returned it by the slight, minuscule upturn of the right side of his mouth. Giving his shoulder the lightest pat, Steve moved away, catching the jacket he had placed on the back of his chair and shrugging it on. "I have to go out for a little while this morning- just to check in with a few friends," He began to say, checking over his phone again. Bucky could see the light flash of a new message, Steve quickly beginning to tap out a response with his thumb as he put his arm through the sleeve of his jacket, looking to Bucky with concern. "You'll be alright?" And then there was the concern again. That definitely seemed to be a reoccurring emotion. 

Setting down the plate he was holding, Bucky nodded his head. "Yes." He said with a slight nod, refraining from mentioning that while Steve was probably viewing him as some sort of abused puppy, he was a renowned assassin with plenty of kills attached to his name. It was more than obvious Bucky knew how to take care of himself (the fact that he was comforted that Steve still felt the need to ask that question was something he would never admit). But yes- of course everything would be fine. Staying here for a few hours alone would be absolutely fine.

Of course, like most things, Bucky was very wrong about that. 

 

He'd started out fine, of course. Bucky had flicked through the multitude of channels on the TV, watching all the mind-numbing programs pass by his vision before giving up on that, going to his bedroom instead and slumped down, fingers drumming against his stomach before he changed positions again. The man stopped trying to get comfortable after quite some time, instead going to rifle through a few of Steves things. It wasn't as though he would know, and it was at least a slight comfort to know that Steve wasn't hiding anything. Or at least he wasn't hiding anything physical. All Bucky found were old photos, and several small, rusted medals in his drawers besides clothes, all of which were neatly folded.

The constant feeling of anxiousness and slight tenseness never really left, though at the moment, with nothing to do, with no one to ignore or focus on, it was more than just a little overwhelming. The man found himself pacing, jaw clenched and teeth grinding almost painfully. He went to the window to calm himself, watching the chunks of snow fall from the heavy clouds, both hands clutching at the sill after he'd opened it up. His metal hand nearly crushed the wood beneath it, though Bucky refrained all the same. His fingers twitched every now and again as he stared at each little white speck (a side effect from having so many smokes, as he'd yet to realize). Bucky continued to look out the window before finally withdrawing, trying to find something to do with himself. 

Bucky didn't know what exactly drew him to the phone, but he was suddenly crouched over the table it was at, his fingers continuing to twitch even after he'd pressed down on the button to replay the voicemails there. 

 _"Steve? It's Bruce- I've got more information. If- if you could meet me at- no, I'll meet you, that'd be easier, I'm sure, with-"_ A clearing of the mans throat, followed by a somewhat harsh noise.  _"-with what you've got going on. I'll send you over the meeting spot, okay?"_ Another harsh sound; not quite a cough, but not quite a clearing of a throat. It sounded like it was caught somewhere between a growl, though far more pained. Bucky's brows furrowed considerably as the message ended, his fingers beginning to stop trembling. 

 _"Hey- what's going on, Cap?"_ The next message rang through a bit louder than expected, whoever was on the other end seeming to have to shout above the sound of some sort of animal in the background.  _"Was wondering if you had any new stuff on Nat. You were...kinda the last person to see her, so I just thought if she would contact anyone, it would be you, y'know? I'm pretty sure she's been keeping the radio silence with me because she thinks I'll blab away about whatever new cover she has for herself. Can you actually believe that? I mean- I kept SHIELD a secret for like- forever. She should at least trust me with something as small as a location, or a name, or just_ something." A sigh, a pause- the it continued.  _"But yeah. If you've got anything new, just give me a ring, okay? And tell that fucking loser Stark to stop making the Old McDonald jokes."_

The next few were much less interesting, mostly just calls from people who were asking for their money for certain jobs- plumbing, the like, a few more from calls from some elderly home, domestic sort of things. He did wonder what Steve had to do with any of that. Bucky only had very basic knowledge on exactly what happened in Steve's life, seeing as to how he never accompanied him anywhere and the most he had gotten about him had been from the internet, though it had all been missions files, things he had already gotten from HYDRA when they had given Captain Rogers to him as a target.

He had gathered little even while staying here. Bucky had been trained to be observant, eyes always scanning around and finding the nearest exit, the nearest weapon. He'd already established that the lamp would be the best choice as a weapon, (take off the lampshade, shatter the glass across the temple, get the target down through brute force with the metal) and he already knew nearly all of the exits he could take, but there wasn't much he could get from the little knick knacks. He had already examined everything- the pictures, the walls, the floors, everything in Steve's drawers. There wasn't much else he could do, really.

So, instead of searching and analyzing as he had done for the past few days, Bucky instead decided to settle down once again to watch the TV. He quickly clicks past the talk shows, feeling uninterested in them entirely- he doesn't understand the references, nor does he know who the people on and talked about on the show even are. He moves past before getting bored again, unable to simply sit and instead getting up, leaving the TV on as someone began to speak rather unemotionally about something to do with stocks and money, and all sorts of things he doesn't need to know about.

Going to the fridge (because now that he has plenty of food at hand he is more than willing to snack whenever he pleases) Bucky settled down to take the lid off of a yogurt, taking the spoon into his mouth slowly to savor the taste. He knew he shouldn't have indulged so much in the luxuries that Steves apartment provided; sooner or later, he would have to leave, and getting used to such a warm, comfortable environment would do him no good if he wanted to survive. Of course he knew he was going to have to leave _sometime._ Bucky may have not been in the right sort of mindset most of the time, but he wasn't completely delusional. Someone was going to find out that Steve was hoarding an ex-assassin inside his home at some point, whether it be a neighbor or what little remained of SHIELD, or even rogue HYDRA agents trying to grasp at straws to piece their organization back together again (and what better way to get back their power than to have their most coveted killing machine back in their hands, so confused and lost and mind just made to fit their mold?) and then Bucky would be taken away. Or maybe he'd be able to run before then. Would he even be able to run from Steve?

That was the question he had been playing over in his head, turning it round and round again. Steve was the only connection to the past he had. Steve also seemed to be the one person who actually thought he was capable of more than just following orders and being used as a weapon. Steve was the only one who _knew_ him. Literally. Bucky didn't even know _himself._ Sometimes he'd have flashes of memories, but they would fade in the instant that they were done, as if they had never even been there at all (which was a rather frustrating sort of thing to happen). But would he be able to run from someone like that? The one person who welcomed him with open arms? Even if not running meant being dragged into another's hands, just to keep Steve from feeling hurt, to keep him from believing that he had been the one to do something wrong? Bucky didn't know, really. He really-

 _"-Rogers, more popularly known as 'Captain America', has had several press conferences about the files that have been brought to the light."_ Bucky looked up with interest at those words, turning his head to see the television, the broadcaster (a woman with curly hair, red lips, and brown eyes) looking straight at the camera, her hands folded neatly in front of her. _"This is not new news for the public, but more files have recently been uncovered with the recent sightings of what seems to be The Winter Soldier._ _The government has called for a calm from the rising tension in New York since the first sighting, and the public has made its panic on the manner clear."_ Bucky's face remained straight and steely as clips of people calling for a manhunt came up, crowing and hollering around with their fists raised, saying something that had to do with public safety. He vaguely wondered why he had never witnessed this before, though decides that he had most likely ignored it. There were enough people shouting around that their own cries could have easily been drowned out.

The clips turn into photographs of him instead, which leave Bucky reeling slightly. The videos of people shouting for him to be found and killed should have left him more than perturbed, he knew- that would be the natural reaction to something like this. He shouldn't have froze at the sight of a picture of himself, but he can't help it. His hair is cropped, short and neat, his eyes alight with something that have been lost in his own, and there's a smile on his lips, curling around the edges, an expression that would probably be infectious; there's spirit there.

He doesn't seem as dead as Bucky does. He doesn't have the same heavy circles under his eyes, their weight seeming to match the one that made his shoulders sag at times. He doesn't look like he would search the room for weapons, for enemies. Bucky twitches, the spoon on the table and long forgotten with the yogurt. Bucky _knows_ that the picture was him. He has the same features, the same eyes, the same structure. But he doesn't remember that photo ever being taken. He doesn't remember having an arm around anyone, he doesn't remember laughing, he doesn't remember smiling, he _doesn't remember._ The picture is of him, but it wasn't _him._ But it is him- but it's _not-_ but _it_ _is-_

The newswoman seemed to ignore his existential crisis entirely, going on with her report as Bucky left the yogurt and spoon on the table when he stood. _"When questioned on the matter, Steve Rogers said that he was looking into it, and that no one should panic. When questioned further, he provided no comment. If anyone does see The Winter Soldier, they are urged to immediately call the police. While he has not yet been confirmed as a threat, all citizens in the surrounding area of New York have been told to-"_ Bucky didn't hear her after that, ignoring the fact that she never used his name (was that his name? He couldn't tell, he didn't know) and who had told who what, instead, moving to Steve's bedroom, nearly ripping the door right off of its hinges when he opened it, though he hardly cared about it. He went to the dresser, snatching up the photo standing there.

Bucky had normally just ignored the objects that Steve kept from the past, mainly because it pained him to even look at them. But now he sat on the bed, staring down at a picture of a man, of _him,_ with his arm slung over Steve's shoulders, lips stretched in a wide grin, his body and posture looking relaxed, comfortable. It was the opposite of Bucky- he sat rigidly, staring down at the picture, his metal hand crushing the edge of the frame where his thumb was as he concentrated on it. Where had he been in that moment? Who had he been with? Who had taken the picture? What were they laughing at?

Questions spin round in his head, as complicated as a spiders web, weaving together and making everything all the more confusing. He doesn't know where he had been. He doesn't know who he had been with. He doesn't know who had taken the picture, or what they had laughed at, or what they had done afterwards. He doesn't know- he doesn't remember. That was the worst part. No matter how hard Bucky tries, no matter how hard he concentrates and pushes for his mind to remember something, _anything,_ it doesn't come. _Nothing_ comes.  
Bucky wants to _scream._

So he did. Roaring with his own rage, the man threw the picture away from himself, letting it smash against the wall. The fact that he had broken something was strangely satisfying, and before he could think it over, think about the damage he could do, Bucky started taking anything he can and smashes it. Against the ground, against the wall, it doesn't matter- as long as its broken, he's fine. As long as its shattered to pieces, unable to be put back together, just like he was, then it was fine.

Bucky moved out from Steves room, fuming and swiping his metal arm across a shelf, books flying and a vase splintering into a thousand pieces. He stepped over them, knocking over the lamp and flipping over the table, throwing the chair to the side and then going to the dining room, pushing everything off of the table in a violent motion before taking the chair, smashing it against the fridge and throwing it away from himself. Bucky didn't even realize he was still screaming, crying out in a savage way, kicking and punching and breaking anything that could be broken inside of the apartment. It felt _good._ Perhaps this was the result of keeping everything pent up, letting it build up and up till there was nothing left to hold it in with, but he didn't care. It felt good to cause such destruction- it felt good to just let go of himself for once, to give into the urges that made the animal in his veins sing and howl and screech, running wild and chasing away any true care he had.

The apartment was left in ruins afterwards, looking as though a small hurricane had torn through the place, though Bucky didn't stop and look around; he simply stared at the ground, at his own feet, seeing shattered glass and bits of wood lying on the tile. He felt numb. There wasn't anger, or relief, or frustration- it was just....nothing. A void was left in his heart, wide and gaping, two gaping wounds replacing his eyes, (as they were far too vulnerable in this moment to be soldiers eyes, an assassins eyes, a monsters eyes) and the animal leaving out through his breath to abandon him, let him face the emptiness alone.

Moving past the broken mess, Bucky moved to the living room, where the table was lying on its side, broken and scratched from when he had thrown a plate straight at it. Settling down in the corner and ignoring as the newscaster spoke moved on to ask someone to talk about the Giants game that was currently happening, Bucky brought his knees up to his chest, tucking his head in and wrapping his arms round himself. He didn't move, or shake- Bucky didn't make a sound. He just stared down, eyes wide open, brows pinched together- that was the only indicator of his confusion, his anger, his disgust. Bucky pulled his legs in more, becoming smaller and smaller, wishing he could do so until he simply disappeared. He let out a small sound once, after an hour or so- it was like a gasp, soft and quiet and barely noticeable. He didn't cry, of course. Bucky and his withered spirit had long since forgotten the bitter taste of tears.

 

* * *

 

Steve came back to the apartment after another three hours. He didn't yell, or try to have Bucky explain. He simply coaxed Bucky out of his curled position, keeping absolutely silent as he led him back to his appointed bedroom. He let Steve lay him down, his head in the others lap as warm, steady fingers combed gently through his hair, the only disruption of the silence being when Steve's breath hitched, and a few hot tears rolled down onto Bucky's neck.


End file.
